Life Story Part 2

After RAF Service

The property found for us was a two-bedroomed terrace house on a recently completed social housing estate in the small Cambridgeshire town of St Neots. It was explained to me that this was one of the first “London Overspill Estates” where residents of the capital – some 50 miles to the south on the main railway line – had been encouraged to relieve the congestion of the city by moving out to the country.  This accounted for the diverse mixture of accents that could be heard around the town at that time. 

In a rural location on the Great Ouse river, the town was certainly pleasant. There was one problem, however. There was no established industry in the region and, therefore, local work was difficult to find. This was of secondary concern for me, however, at the beginning. My first task was to feather the donated nest; my career could just wait.

13 Pepys Road, St Neots

Immediately prior to leaving RAF Wyton, I had been busy with two concurrent tasks: cleaning the married quarters for handover whilst getting the empty council property ready for permanent occupation. Thank goodness the two properties were not too far apart.

Nowadays great effort is given to preparing servicemen and servicewomen for life after service. Nothing similar was available to us in the late 1970s. I like to think that I was one of those not greatly affected by going from the military situation, where all is taken care of, to a civilian environment, where everything has to be organised personally, but I still encountered problems. In retrospect, I realise that I was not as independent as I believed at the time. It took a long time for me to shake off the shackles of military life.

As Kath was still in a psychiatric institution, I was doing this on my own. Nevertheless, the Families Office at Wyton fully appreciated my situation and made life as easy for me as they could from their side, whilst Huntingdon District Council brought my circumstances to the attention of one of their social officers who subsequently was of great assistance to me. How I would have fared without their help is difficult to contemplate, but I know I would have coped somehow. That’s what we were taught in the military.

I was paid an end-of-service grant of around £1,500 – a sizeable amount for that period. But, in furnishing the house with a mixture of new and second-hand items, this bonus quickly evaporated. I recall, in particular, how the social worker came to see me a few days after I had moved in to 13 Pepys Road. He was complimentary on how I had managed to kit out the house with all necessities. 

However, he did point out one thing to me. The curtains lacked fullness; how had I measured them? It was only then that I found out that it was necessary to buy curtains measuring double the width of a window. I had thought they didn’t look quite right. I was able to buy another pair of the same pattern and size the following day and, although made up of four separate elements, the curtains certainly now looked much better when hanging at the window. 

Lesson No 1 of civilian life: Don’t be afraid to ask questions when doing something for the first time.

Kath returned much improved from treatment a few days later. (I had requested that I first be allowed to prepare the house before she came back and her nursing staff had agreed). We quickly settled into our life there. Kath – now consistently taking her medication – made friends in the neighbourhood and, with the children in school, I could look to finding work.

By now our funds were exhausted, with restricted income. (I am sure that constantly paying out for our joint heavy smoking habits had accelerated our money problems). I had this new-found ambition to find work overseas. In particular, I was hearing of possibilities in Saudi Arabia, so this was my primary target. I continually searched the press for advertised opportunities, applying by letter for several without response.  

I was not prepared to simply live in hope of a perfect employment fit and, for this reason, jumped at the chance of a job advertised in the local Job Centre.

Back to Engineering

The work on offer was for a machine operator in a local engineering workshop which produced component parts to order for major manufacturers. The family run organisation consisted of around four lathes and other process machines, none of which were modern. The equipment on which I had trained over a decade earlier at Holset were far superior to these models. But work was work. And beggars can’t be choosers.

When I turned up for interview with the Foreman/Co-Owner of the business, he was most pleased to hear that I was an apprentice trained mechanical engineer. He asked if I could operate each of the machines; I replied that I was sure, although it was over twelve years ago since I had got my hands dirty on them. This was enough for him. I started the next morning.

I began on a centre lathe, to which I was pleased to note that I adapted without major hazard. I started talking to a young man on the neighbouring machine. He was an Iranian who had recently completed a degree in furnishings design at a Cambridge university. He too was filling in, using previously gained engineering skills whilst applying for that dream position. From what I heard whilst I was there, the workshop seemed to specialise in providing temporary employment for locals desiring to climb a career ladder elsewhere. 

Near the end of the first week, the boss came to me and asked if I had ever worked a grinding machine. I was able to assure him that I had, after which he took me over to a machine in the corner surrounded by storage tins of semi-processed parts. It would be my job to finish these items to the demanded tight tolerances. I said I’d give it a go, so he set the machine going. He then asked “Can you balance a grinding wheel?”. I answered honestly that, although I’d done this during my apprenticeship, I’d only completed this under supervision and did not have a required current certificate of competence. His answer of “That’s not necessary here” just summed up my opinion of the way he ran the business. Nevertheless, taking my time, I trimmed and balanced the wheel and set to the task.

It was now obvious that this operation was the reason that the co-owner had been keen to take me on. Apart from him, up to now there had been no-one in the workshop with the experience to work the grinding machine. Out of date and uncertified, I was still put to working exclusively on this machine. 

Grinding wheels are inherently dangerous and so I took my time to get everything right. I was able to produce finished products consistently to size and within tolerance, a fact confirmed via individual checking of my output by the boss. I started to get into a routine and produce the finished parts correctly and quickly. Or so I thought. 

The boss came to me with a piece of paper, with times typed on it. This was the calculation of the output speed I would have to work at to obtain a production bonus. The greatest value per item was around half the time than I was achieving at my fastest. I gave it a go – it was impossible. To achieve the bonus, I would have to take huge cuts using the grinding wheel, a highly dangerous approach. If an overloaded grinding wheel breaks, serious injury will surely ensue. I was not prepared to take this risk. Much as I would have liked the bonus, I valued my safety higher. At least this one principle of my Holset apprenticeship had remained with me. I simply continued to make the parts as correctly and quickly as I could. The boss never brought the subject of bonus up again.

I came home one evening to a letter waiting from British Aerospace in Stevenage. I had applied earlier for an advertised position requiring knowledge of German. This response had been weeks in arriving; I had almost forgotten sending the application. I was invited for interview with their personnel team the following week. At work the following morning, I arranged a day off and rang at lunchtime to confirm the meeting in Stevenage.

British Aerospace, Stevenage, Hertfordshire

One of the reasons I was interested in work at British Aerospace was the possibility of gaining a job with them in Saudi Arabia. Positions to work there – in support of large ongoing BAe military aircraft orders – were regularly advertised in the national press. I knew of ex-RAF colleagues already employed with the company in Saudi. If I could get in with the organisation, surely I would then be in a better position to apply internally for overseas duties? That was my initial aim.

I took the train from St Neots to Stevenage – a journey of 25 minutes – and made my way to the huge British Aerospace factory up on Six Hills Way. Compared to my current employment workshop environment, this was light years ahead. All the factory and fittings were modern and appealing. I was immediately impressed.

At the start of the interview, one thing was made clear. The factory did not make aircraft. The establishment concentrated on manufacturing aircraft systems and satellite technology. The job on offer was to work on liaison between the departments manufacturing the equipment to mount the TOW anti-tank missiles on the Lynx helicopter. The missile was built by the US Hughes Aircraft company, whilst the Lynx helicopter was manufactured by Westland Helicopters in Yeovil, Somerset. As one projected customer was the German Luftwaffe, there was a potential need for a German linguist in the team.

After a surprisingly short interview – where my engineering, military, and language experience seemed to impress – I was offered the job, to start two weeks later, by the Head of the Lynx/TOW Department. Whilst waiting, I talked to another candidate, this time a recent graduate in French. She too was successful and started in the section on the same day as me.

I returned to the local engineering company the following day and handed in my notice. The owners did not appear to be surprised. They wished me well and thanked me for my efforts. In total I had only spent six weeks there, but it seemed longer. One thing came of this: I decided there and then that I would only ever return to the engineering shop floor as a last resort. In the event, this was never called upon, although there were to be times of unemployment later when I would have been glad of such an opportunity..

On the first day at BAe I went through the introduction procedure at the factory. This included a session with the Personnel Officer. I took the bull by the horns and asked if there was any chance of later working overseas for the company. He informed that this was not an option offered at Stevenage. I could apply to the British Aerospace aircraft factories elsewhere in the country, where current employment in the organisation might give a slight advantage, but he could offer no influence in such an application. 

He did however make an interesting suggestion. If what I was looking for was better paid work, there was a possibility for this in positions they were trying to fill currently at Stevenage. He then asked a manager to come down to talk to me. (They were really that desperate it seems). The department head asked if my mathematics was up to scratch; I replied that I believed so. What they were looking for were individuals to work in the newly established Systems Modelling Department. The work would be ground-breaking and hopefully interesting. I listened him out and promised to think about it, although I had immediately decided to carry on with a job where my languages abilities would be used.

It was only well after the event that I realised what he had been offering was a place in a new computer programming team to produce a bespoke system for the company. Such experienced contributors would be worth their weight in gold within a matter of years, when the demand for computer programmers grew exponentially. An opportunity missed?

I recall three things about my time at BAe: There wasn’t much work to do; I looked at lots of supplied drawings; I was never called upon to use my language abilities.

The days dragged there. I soon realised that the environment was just like the Civil Service, only with an engineering accent. There were no prizes for seeking additional work. Indeed, any form of initiative was frowned upon by the long-serving colleagues who had been drafted into this new department. 

When I mentioned this to my young department head, he sympathised with my situation, insisting that the work load would increase in the fullness of time as the project progressed to fruition. In the meantime, should I wish, I could wear my white smockcoat, take a clipboard, and go around the factory speaking to the rugby players I knew there. Unbelievable.

My newcomer French-speaking colleague was also dissapointed with her lot. As this was her first ever work position, she hadn’t known what to expect. I got the impression that she – like me – was already considering other options. Mine came quickly. 

At the end of three months or so working at Stevenage (which had been eased considerably by the shared car journey I had been able arrange from and to St Neots after the first week) I was offered a job in Saudi Arabia. My newcomer colleague – whose name I have unfortunately forgotten – put her notice in on the very same day as me. She went to work in London for a City Bank, preferring to put up with a long daily commute rather than to carry on sitting around waiting for work to be given to her.

Only two seemed disappointed to hear we were leaving – the department head and the Hughes representative. The other old hands appeared pleased to see the back of us, considering us some kind of revolutionaries who were out to shake up the status quo. 

There had been a chance to join the Civil Service on leaving the RAF. This was under a scheme for a fixed allocation of former military Officers and SNCOs to enter at the Executive Officer level, immediately crediting their years served into the Civil Service Pension Scheme. I had friends who had followed this path. One in particular was promoted after making an admitted mess of a given procurement position in Naval Stores at Plymouth. The reason for the promotion?  “It wasn’t that the choice of individual was wrong; it was simply that he had been allocated to an unsuitable task”. Whilst he was embarrassed to recall this, it just validated my lifelong dislike of bureaucracy. No, I would never have been a fit for the Civil Service. My time at British Aerospace had simply confirmed this.

St Newts Rugby

It was Kath’s suggestion that I consider playing rugby again. She knew how important this was for me. By simply looking in the local library, I found the details of the St Neots Rugby Club. I attended the next advertised evening training session, gaining immediate selection for their second team. One week later I was in the first team, quickly accepted by teammates. 

St Neots, like previously Kesteven, was my type of club. The team had no pretences of greatness – although the captain was an ex-Cambridge Blue – playing friendly games against similarly inclined clubs from the Cambridge and Bedford area. (A game against the British Aerospace team in Stevenage fortuitously came on the Saturday before I joined the company the following Monday, hence I had already made friends in the bar after the game with future workmates.)

For some reason, I was allocated for the transport to and from games with three serving officers from Cambridgeshire Constabulary, in the vehicle known naturally as “The Police Car”. At one point they spoke about an event they had been brought in to provide extra manpower for by the Metropolitan Police, the so-called Race Riots following a National Front gathering in Southall, London. It would appear that they had been given free licence to meet fire with fire during their policing, mentioning occasions that they had used their truncheons, although they did not clarify on whom. They jokingly – or perhaps not – added that this exercise excused them from rugby training that week.

It was around this time that sports teams were starting to adopt corporate clothing. St Neots commenced piecemeal, obtaining first a dark blue V-neck jumper with a club logo for players to buy and wear. The logo – when received – neatly summed up the nature of the club in my opinion. It showed the outline of a salamander newt, embroidered in white, with a halo over its head. St Newts! I was to wear this pullover for years thereafter; it was a great conversation starter.

Arabian Bechtel, Jubail, Saudi Arabia

I had seen a recurring advert in the national newspapers for positions on offer in Saudi Arabia to work on a major project there being managed by the US company Bechtel. The many occupations listed were mainly in the field of civil engineering, although at the bottom I noticed vacancies for Male Secretaries. Salaries were described as “generous and tax free”. With this in mind, I sent off an application for a secretary position by post and awaited a response. This came back by return – an invitation to the Bechtel UK Office in Hammersmith for an early test and interview. To add to the attraction of the offer, the reply stated “Reasonable travel costs and expenses will be reimbursed to those attending the interview”. That sealed it for me.

By now, although our marriage was still in a precarious situation, we were generally living a normal life. Kath was taking medication regularly, which went a long way to stabilise her mental illness. She had a caring doctor and friends in the neighbourhood, so I could be reasonably sure that she would be assisted should a flareup occur in my extended absence. Most importantly, a year long break might be good for both sides, whilst bringing in a much-needed increase in finances. We both agreed that I should pursue possibilities.

When I arrived at the office in Hammersmith, I was greatly impressed. The company’s large offices were clean, open planned, and rammed with modern equipment. 

I was taken for a typing test – using a golf ball electric typewriter – which I apparently passed with ease. (Someone had put a pencil line halfway down the text to be copied. I correctly assumed that this was the “pass mark”. I nearly completed the whole text in the allocated time, with only a couple of errors). 

After this, I was subject to a question-and-answer session with a trio of company representatives. (At least one of which was a behavioural psychologist, as I was to find out later). This also seemed to go well, particularly when they saw on my application form that I was a former RAF SNCO. “We employ many veterans throughout our organisation” I was informed.

Finally, I was taken for a medical. As I was waiting, another candidate said to me “How old are you?” I told him 31, to which he responded “Poor sod!”  It turned out anyone over 30 years of age was subject to a colonic inspection, hence his warning. I thought, “Oh, well. If that’s what I have to go through to get the job, so be it”. This universal pre-employment requirement for Bechtel later became a standing joke out in Saudi Arabia. 

Towards the end of the day, I was informed that I had been successful in my application. I could start at any time in the next month. They gave me a generous amount of expenses – double what I had actually paid out – and asked me to let them know my decision as soon as possible. I called them the next day, arranging to fly out to start work in the Middle East the following week.

I had to travel down to Hammersmith in London the day before departure. There I signed my contract, was given an introductory lecture about working in Saudi Arabia – including the dos and don’ts of working in an Islamic country – and handed my flight ticket. I was put up in a local hotel overnight, from where a taxi would take me to the airport early the following morning. Finally, an unexpected sizeable cash expenses advance was given to me.

Resting in my hotel the night before, I decided to make the best of my expenses advance by not dining there. I bought a few snacks from a local store instead. I also elected not to take the expensive taxi the following morning; I would go up to Heathrow Airport by underground. Any cash saved would then go into my pocket, to supplement my meagre money supply. This could be then exchanged for Saudi Riyals at the airport.

On arrival at Dammam Airport in Saudi Arabia, I met other recruits bound for Jubail. Whilst waiting for our transport, I mentioned that I had made my way in London from hotel to airport on the Tube. “You’re the one who was missing” they commented. Apparently, the taxi from the hotel to the airport was fully prepaid by Bechtel; I had saved nothing, simply losing the value of the underground fare, by my actions. To add to my mistake of exchanging money at excessive airport rates, on the first day in Jubail we were all given an advance on the proportion of our salary that we had decided to be paid in local currency. I didn’t need the Saudi money brought from UK.

That Bechtel had been so generous in their expenses policy was a major surprise for me. On reflection, perhaps this could have been expected of one of the world’s largest civil engineering organisations. The company for which I was working was called Arabian Bechtel, a joint venture with the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in the construction of industrial cities in Jubail and Yanbu.

In the eleven months that I worked in Jubail, I recall that we had visits from US Bechtel senior management involved in this, the world’s largest civil engineering project. Two of these were George Schulz and Caspar Weinberger. If these names appear familiar, it is because both subsequently were to take leading roles in the Cabinet of President Ronald Regan from 1981 onwards. George Schultz was his Secretary of State, whilst Caspar Weinberger acted as Secretary of Defence. The Bechtel family were prominent backers of Ronald Reagan’s presidential bid, so this promotion of their company leaders was not surprising. I remember seeing George Schultz in Jubail, whilst it is possible that I also saw Caspar Weinberger; his name was mentioned regularly.

• The Quest for Alcohol

Everyone had been forewarned about the consequences of being found drinking alcohol in this dry country, but the levels that people would go to were nevertheless surprising. During my short period there two Indian (male) triage nurses died from the effects of drinking rubbing alcohol taken from surgery supplies. (This news was hushed up on camp, but we knew about it almost immediately thanks to ever-aware Yasser). 

Also, when news came out about my mid-term break travel back to UK, I was asked to bring back a homebrew ingredient – malt I think – suitably disguised in my luggage. (The contents of all cases were individually inspected at the airport on arrival). Against my better judgement, I bought some brewing malt and successfully imported it concealed in my case.

Then I was persuaded to have a new brew hidden in my wardrobe. (My neighbour in the mobile home was a Saudi and I was not sure how he would react if he found out, so I was somewhat apprehensive). But nature came to my rescue. After a couple of days, I opened my wardrobe to a swarm of small flies. I reported this to the “camp brewer” who immediately diagnosed a bad case of yeast fly. He took the barrel away – where to I didn’t want to know – and that’s the last dealings I had with this setup. I was sure that I could manage a few months without a drink.

A final point on the illegal brewing. One day Yasser came to see me and asked “Have you any drink or brewing equipment in your mobile home?”  I told him “No”, to which he responded “Good. The Police will be searching your rooms in the next couple of days. If you’ve got anything, get rid of it”. And he was right. The very politely executed search took place after breakfast the following Friday (the Islamic weekend). We never asked Yasser where he was getting his information from, although it was suggested more than once that he was being used deliberately as a conduit by the authorities to ensure that order with the foreigners was maintained.

• Evening Shopping

I got used to the idea of shopping in the evening, when the temperature had decreased to acceptable levels. There was regular transport to the nearby town of Dharhan, with its rows of individual shops. One outlet in particular was of interest to me – a shop with a huge collection of cheap music cassettes. (This was in the days before Compact Disks and, of course, later online digital recordings). I had bought a radio/cassette player with my first advance of local currency, at a cost much cheaper than in UK. New copies of albums on cassette – available at a price of less than £1 each – came in every week. I would spend ages looking around the stock.

I recall one evening in particular. I was alone in the shop with the owner when the loudspeaker call to prayer sounded outside. He turned to me and said “You can stay in the shop. Put your payment on the counter when you leave”. I was shocked. He didn’t even lock up when he went to the mosque. Irrespective of his invitation, I just couldn’t leave the shop unoccupied. I waited until he returned to pay him. He was surprised to see me but was pleased with my honesty. Whenever I returned to the shop thereafter, he would make a point of showing me the newly received items, giving me a discount on multiple purchases

.

When I mentioned this to others in the camp, I was told that it was not unusual for shopkeepers to leave their premises unlocked when they went to prayer. Perhaps it was because the country had a reputation for cutting off the hands of thieves, but it was more likely that the government’s financial support granted to all Saudi businesses allowed them to be so trusting. They could live comfortably without even selling a single article in their establishments.

One final point on the cassettes which I collected. We heard of another expatriate who had flown home to Heathrow Airport, where he was stopped by Customs and his case opened. He too had a selection of cassettes bought in Saudi Arabia. “These are illegal copies” he was told. He received an official warning and his stock was confiscated. When my turn to fly home came about, I took the risk, making no attempt to hide the collection in my case. In the event, I walked straight through Customs. I still have a couple of these ‘illegal’ cassettes from that time in my possession.

• After the Sandstorm

One Friday afternoon, resting in my room, I heard what sounded like heavy rain against the side of our mobile home. I looked out of my window to see that a wind had suddenly blown up. I could see sand being blown away from my side of the building. Fascinated, I went to the entrance at the end of the corridor on the other side to see what was happening. I couldn’t open the outside door. Then I heard a banging outside. Between us, my colleague from another room and I managed to open the door sufficiently for him to squeeze in. “Sandstorm!” he blurted out. By now it appeared that our temporary housing was in danger of being blown over. This lasted for around an hour, when it finished just as quickly as it had started.

We all breathed a sigh of relief and went outside to inspect the damage. Thankfully, our accommodation had survived intact. However one side of the mobile home – the one facing the direction of the storm – was now a noticeable shade of green lighter than the other. The effect of a natural dose of sand blasting.

The following morning I was in the office when Yasser came to me with Gene.  “There’s a British tractor out in the desert. Do you want to come with us to see it?”  With that we set off inland. After around an hour we found the aforementioned vehicle. It was a made-in-Huddersfield David Brown tractor, apparently in pristine condition. What a coincidence! Yasser explained that, just as the tractor had been unearthed by a sandstorm, it had probably been buried by an earlier such weather phenomenon.

(I made a note of the serial number and reported this later by letter to David Browns in Meltham, as I thought they might be interested in the fate of their product. They didn’t even acknowledge my communication.)

• Filipino Workmates

Expatriate workers from the Philippines can be found all over the world. They will often be the main earners in their families, sending the majority of their pay cheques back to their islands. Whenever I went into Dharhan I would come across a queue of them outside the local Western Union office, all waiting to transfer their local currency home. Here working for an USA firm, these workers had the advantage of speaking English as a second language from an early age, as well as being schooled under the American system. There was one point about their schooling, however. I soon realised that the “degree” qualifications they boasted were just about equivalent to ‘O’ Level GCEs. Nevertheless, they were hard workers and easy to get along with. I soon learned a few words in Tagalog, if only to wish them “Good Morning” and say “Thank You”.

My co-assistants for Gene were Arturo and Heimey. Arturo was a man of few words but the possessor of a funny, dry wit on occasion, whereas Heimey (another openly homosexual individual) was a bundle of energy. Arturo explained his lively behaviour to me by stating “Heimey’s from Luzon island”. He didn’t feel that further clarification was required.

Heimey came to see me when he heard that I was going home to UK on mid-contract leave. He had a special request for me. Could I buy him some basketball shoes in England? He was very specific about the design and size required. If I couldn’t find these, don’t bring any alternatives. We agreed that he would pay me if I brought them back. He requested that I remember to bring the receipt if successful in my search.

I was able to find exactly what he wanted in a sportswear shop in Huntingdon. As soon as I arrived back, Heimey was there to find me. He excitedly opened the box, examined the contents with receipt, and paid me immediately in US Dollars. To say he was delighted was an understatement. He then explained the reason behind his special request of me.

Apparently, he had been trying for months to obtain these basketball shoes from others travelling to UK, without success. These Nike boots were made in the Philippines for sale in Europe. Although his father worked at the Nike factory there, it was a strict rule that locals could not buy the goods they manufactured. They were made exclusively for export. By buying them as I had, particularly by providing a receipt, his father could realise his dream of legally owning a pair. The sizing Heimey had given me was to suit his father’s feet

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As I left Jubail before Heimey’s next home visit, I didn’t get chance to receive feedback from him concerning the surprise present he took for his father. Nevertheless, he thanked me often for my actions. I was just pleased to have helped him realise this wish. The circumstances behind it were intriguing when viewed through a westerner’s eyes.

One final point about Filipinos. Don’t play pool against them. They’re sharks. They let you win the first friendly game, then, when the next (non-alcoholic) drink is the prize for succeeding games, they take you to the cleaners. Pool is a national sport in the Philippines, from where some of the world’s leading exponents originate, but I didn’t know that at the time.  I’m not a bad player, but I just wasn’t in their league.

• Sport for All

After a few months, a new arrival came into our department, the Sports Coordinator. He was exactly what he looked – an All-American College Football star. He and I got on well from the start, as he admitted that he needed knowledgeable assistance in organising those sports alien to him. His original wish had been to use the specially planned open areas at the centres of each work camp to host baseball. However, it was quickly pointed out to him that he would receive a better response by planning cricket games there, considering the large numbers of South Asian workers on the camps. Hence his approach to me for help.

Only a matter of days later he arrived at my desk carrying a huge leather bag in both hands. He opened it, revealing a selection of best quality cricket items ranging from bats to wickets, stumps, balls, pads and gloves.  “I’ve got a load more back in my office. This was put together by the supplier to show a sample kit of the stock being delivered. Is everything here? Oh, by the way, there are also strips of artificial turf and marking out kits in my store.”  

It was a veritable treasure trove. My local cricket club would have given anything to receive a delivery like this; I told him so. To add to my amazement, he went on to inform me that one set each of this equipment had been ordered for every work camp. If I didn’t fully realise it before, I was now certain that money really was no object to Arabian Bechtel when it came to procuring supplies.

We then set about organising a practice session for the next weekend. Initially, it would only take place on my camp, as this was the only one fully occupied at that time. To this end, notices would be put up in the camp’s refectory, inviting interested parties to come along to take part on the following Friday morning. Issuing notices on the camp was not as simple as it may appear: all general printed information – without exception – had to be formulated in six languages, including English, Arabic, Tagalog and a series of South Asian dialects. I remember thinking at the time “How many Arabs and Filipinos will be interested in cricket?” but rules are rules. My American sports specialist associate – whose name I have also unfortunately since forgotten – told me that he had “priority access” to the translation team, such was the importance placed by the management on his activities.

I recall going for breakfast the next Friday morning and immediately noticing that a cricket pitch, with wickets on artificial grass strips at both ends, had been set up overnight on the central area. (The Sports Coordinator told me later that he had used Indian labourers for the task, a wise move). There were groups around, looking at the taped off area. By the time I came back out after breakfast, the number of bystanders had increased.

My US colleague arrived with the bag of bats, balls and protective equipment. By this time we had realised that the onlookers were there to take part in the practice session. They were all Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi males. After some confusion, we managed to set up a session of short practice games, trying our best to ensure that everyone got a go. One thing was soon obvious; there were some talented cricketers amongst them. I recall that one Indian quietly asked me if he would be allowed to bat soon, as he was “a District Cricketer”. Once he got to the wicket, it was obvious to all that he was a class act. Similarly, we had to ask one Pakistani bowler to slow down a little; he was so devastatingly quick and accurate.

Towards the end of the session, a company photographer came by to record the occasion. I lost the picture I was given in a subsequent house fire in St Neots, but I can still recall its contents. A large group of cricket lovers with only two white faces in the crowd – those of my giant US organiser colleague and me.

We continued our practice sessions every Friday thereafter, gradually more organised and extended in duration. Then a team was put together by a couple of Englishmen from the senior management to play against a side from the nearby Aramco site. The Aramco setup was magnificent in the desert conditions. They also had a West Indian bowler who had played representative cricket back home. (It was suggested that he had been recruited by Aramco specifically to play cricket, such was the financial clout and influence that Saudi Arabia’s leading oil company exercised). 

They beat us, but only just. The next week I was not included in the side for a repeat fixture; the best of our Indian and Pakistani players from the practice sessions were called up. They inflicted defeat on the Aramco team for the first time in ages. I recall that the Arabian Bechtel management were highly delighted with this result. The Jubail team then went on to dominate the nascent cricket league in the Eastern Province.

From the practice sessions I recall the reactions of the cricket-mad Asians to the equipment on offer. Many openly admitted that this was the first time they had used genuine bats and balls. They had established their demonstrated skills using homemade equipment only. When not on the field, they would take turns in picking up the spare bats and balls, which they would lovingly swing or throw and catch, carefully avoiding putting bat to ball. Watching them do this brought a lump to my throat.

Before I left, I was informed that one of the major constructions planned for the city was a swimming pool complex. Although I never experienced this, I was nevertheless able to take advantage of the nearby waters of the Persian Gulf. The sandy beach there went on for miles and, prior to widespread oil pollution resulting from the Gulf War, the sea was clear and inviting. I went swimming there as often as I could.

One day I was a few metres out to sea when I realised that I was swimming through a swarm of fish. They were passing below me and to my sides. Then I heard my friends calling from the shore. I immediately swam back to be informed “You’ve just been swimming through loads of flying fish!”.  Apparently, they could see my head surrounded by these fish taking the airborne route to avoid me. If only I too had been able to witness this...

• Pros and Cons of Hot Weather

The weather got gradually hotter during my sojourn in Saudi. Sun from dawn to dusk, with very infrequent rain interventions. I recall a message passed one day to all workers to the effect of “It’s around 120 degrees Fahrenheit out there. Drivers are warned not to touch car handles with bare hands. Please use gloves to avoid burns”.

The heat did have one advantage. For drying washing. I used to do my laundry on Fridays. I would hang my clothes from the first load out on the external line whilst the second pile was in the washer. By the time this wash process had finished – around 40 minutes – the clothes from my first wash were already bone dry on the line, even thick jeans.  I found this production line ease so useful.

After a few months, I started to get headaches after being out in the sun, although I wore sunglasses and a hat. I managed to get an appointment with the resident British doctor, despite the efforts of the Indian triage nurses to divert me away. (He had told me to basically ignore them by saying “I’ve got a meeting with Gordon”. Anyone who knew his first name – particularly a Brit – thus had carte blanche to get past the overprotective nurses).  He examined me and then asked to see my sunglasses. He said “I thought so. Cheap lenses. The problem is not the direct sun, it’s the reflection from the sand which is causing the damage to your eyes and bringing on the headaches. Do yourself a favour and buy some good glasses from the pharmacy in Dharhan. That should clear the problem.” I did exactly as he advised, buying a $100 pair of genuine Ray-Ban sunglasses, and the headaches went away. Ever since I am particular in choosing good sunglasses, donning them at the first sign of summer sunshine.

• Bechtel Recruitment Power

One experience witnessed in Jubail summed up the power of the Bechtel company for me. I was asked by Gene to be present in a meeting he had planned with senior managers, to take notes for his record. The subjects for discussion were widespread, dealing with the urban services to be instigated in the next planning stage of the project. 

One major topic for decision was the traffic control system to be utilised in the city centre. One of the participants mentioned the work of a professor at a British university who specialised in such undertakings. He had written a student textbook on the subject. It was suggested that his framework should be adopted. At this point the senior Saudi present said “Every man has his price. Get him to come and work for us”.

Six weeks or so later, just before I left, the named professor was added to the payroll of Arabian Bechtel. Due to circumstances, I never actually met him, but I had chance to skim through a copy of his textbook obtained for Gene. To my surprise, in it I found an example already known to me: the sequencing of traffic lights at the major Chapel Hill junction in home-town Huddersfield. It really is a small world.

The Godfather-like “Make him an offer he can’t refuse” approach which I had observed was apparently typical for the senior management of Arabian Bechtel. The Saudi money behind the construction of this, the world’s largest civil engineering project, allowed the already-rich Bechtel company to adopt an obvious no cost is out of the question attitude.

One experience summed up the Saudi approach to money on the site. One day Ibrahim asked me to go to the accounting section to pick up some foreign currency for him for a business trip overseas. When I eventually found an English-speaking member of staff, I repeated Ibrahim’s request. He did no more than open a drawer in his desk and say to me “Take the money while I prepare a receipt”. 

The drawer was crammed with a variety of US Dollar notes, mainly $100 bills. I hesitate to think how much was there; certainly tens of thousands of US Dollars, probably more. I carefully sorted the required amount, counting and recounting the total. I then put the remainder back in the drawer.

My contact returned with a receipt for me to sign – printed in Arabic. Thankfully, by that time I knew the basic Arabic numerals (these are written out from left to right, as in English), so I could confirm the figure on the document but I didn’t know what else its text contained. He didn’t want me to count out the money for him; he took my word that I had extracted the correct amount. I signed where asked and took the money to Ibrahim. What did Ibrahim do with the wad I handed over? Without checking the total, he put it straight into his desk drawer.

• Religious Influences

I was alone in the office one day when the telephone rang. A woman’s voice asked “Is Ibrahim there?” I said that he was out in a meeting. “That’s OK” she said. “Tell him that his wife rang”.

Ibrahim came back to the office a little later and I told him that his wife had called. “Which wife?” he replied. Then he smiled. “Was she speaking English?” he asked. When I confirmed this, he replied “Then I know which wife this is”.  To my amused look, he explained that – as a Muslim – he could have more than one wife, as long as he treated both equally. The English-speaking wife lived in Bahrain, whilst his wife in Jubail only spoke Arabic. 

I found out that such polygamy was not unusual for Saudi men. Ibrahim’s set-up – with two wives living in separate locations – was typical for better-off businessmen. Gene summed it up by saying to me “Ibrahim is western enough to have a US education but eastern enough to have two wives”.

The month of Ramadan fell during the latter part of my stay. Whilst non-Muslims were not expected to follow suit, they were instructed to behave in ways not to upset locals during fasting. This ban included eating, drinking or smoking in places where Muslims might be found. The operation of the restaurants was strictly controlled, with limited access, whilst blanked-off office spaces were provided for non-Muslims to take smoke and drink breaks at work. One of my jobs was to blank off the windows in one of our small offices with paper, ensuring afterwards that supplies for the coffee machines situated therein were constantly maintained.

The system worked well for the first week or so. As the month progressed, many of the Saudi managers and employees would simply not turn up for work. I was informed that this was not unusual. Then I noticed that, one by one, the number of Saudis entering our sanctuary to drink and smoke increased. I mentioned this to Gene. When it got to saturation point, he organised another insulated room for us to use. By the end of the month, we had two separate functioning blanked off rooms; one used by Saudis and the second by other nationalities.

I admit that I was disappointed by this turn of events, but as Gene commented “He who pays the piper calls the tune”. None of us was going to complain. To cap it all, one day I noticed Ibrahim’s sanctimonious deputy enter the room. He came out stinking of cigarette smoke. He was the last one I would have expected to submit to temptation. But, then again, I know that I would find dawn to dusk fasting a torment, so I’m not really in a position to comment negatively of others.

One final comment on the non-drinking rules of the Saudi nation.  On my first British Airways flight back to Heathrow, I was astounded by the number of men in traditional dress taking advantage of the airline’s free drinks policy. The call lights were flashing continuously for repeated alcoholic drinks orders. The couple next to me even tried to get more miniature whisky bottles from the cabin crew whilst we were on the landing approach to London. I was shocked by this hypocrisy. If only hours earlier I had been found drinking in their country, I would have been reported on immediately and most likely have found myself in prison. Yet, just ten minutes after take-off, all rules were off for these same people, as they partook of forbidden alcohol. I’m tolerant of all beliefs, but they could have been a little more subtle in their behaviour. Either change clothing or await arrival at the destination before amending their conduct.

• Preparations for Home Travel

As a further indication of the generosity of the Arabian Bechtel company, all those under contract from the London office received a bonus on successful completion of a contract – the price of a first class air ticket for the journey home. This gesture was described generally as “A flight back on Concorde”, as the supersonic airliner was operating a short-lived joint venture route with Singapore Airlines via Bahrain to London in 1979.

I don’t know of anyone who took advantage of this luxury travel offer. Most opted instead to do what I did – find the cheapest alternative and pocket the substantial difference in costs. We were left to our own devices in selecting our route home with the travel department at the company. They were responsible for booking and issuing our air tickets, as well as arranging handover of any unused allocated travel funds direct to us.

My adviser went through possibilities with me, mainly economy class with Saudia (Saudi Airways) or British Airways. He then came across a multi-stop alternative with Pakistan International Airways. A colleague, who was also in the office arranging his flight back, was immediately interested. In this way, we were both booked on a PIA flight from Bahrain to Rome via Damascus. We would then complete our journey from Rome to London on Alitalia. If I recall correctly, we used only around 40% of our allocated funds on this arrangement; I remember that I ended up nearly two thousand dollars in pocket.

Although it was never really a serious prospect, I asked the Personnel Department if there was any chance of receiving another contract for work in Jubail. They treated my request seriously, but it was no shock when the response came through “There are no immediate vacancies for Male Secretaries”. Even if I had been accepted, I doubt whether I would have taken them up on the offer. In this indirect way, I simply wanted to know how well I was thought of.  

The situation with recruitment of secretaries from London had changed in my time there. Replacements were now all from the Philippines. I was not surprised with this policy change. The Filipinos were reliable, conscientious workers, whilst the British and American could be loose cannons. For example, every secretary was given a thick book of instructions, including rules that all correspondence – in American English according to Webster’s Dictionary – must be recorded with reference numbers on each page. These references had to follow a strict, formulated pattern. 

The Filipinos learned this manual by heart. I, on the other hand, insisted on using Oxford English spellings (“colour” never “color”) and seldom added a document reference. After period of time, I worked solely on Gene’s personal letters – where any added English spellings simply amused him – whilst my Filipino colleagues completed all official documentation, mainly reports. This served to keep harmony in the office, but obviously my maverick ways had not gone unnoticed. Otherwise, I might have been offered a second helping, as I know that both Gene and Ibrahim thought well of me.

Although by the end I was delighted to finish my contract and leave the heat and restrictions of Saudi Arabia with money in the bank, it was with genuine sadness that I bade farewell to the band in the Urban Development Department. If I had learned anything here, it was how to work as part of a multinational team. I am convinced that this was most beneficial when I was later to expand my international business horizons.

• A Fated Flight

My colleague and I set off on our return journey from Damman airport on the shortest international flight of the time, a short hop across the water to Manama in Bahrain. The aircraft took off; the attendants came round, virtually throwing a chocolate bar and an orange drink each at passengers; the No Smoking sign went off; half a cigarette later, the sign came back on; we were on the landing path. On a good day the whole flight lasted 10 minutes, on a bad day (including a circuit of the airfield) 20 minutes. 

With the opening of the King Fahd Causeway – linking Saudi Arabia to Bahrain 16 miles away – in 1986, the need for this flight was negated. Yet it was a unique experience while it lasted.

At Bahrain airport we were able to enjoy a cool draught beer for the first time in months at the special “Non-Muslims Only” bar. Our aircraft came in on time. We were the only passengers boarding at Manama. We were taken out to the aeroplane to discover that it was a Boeing 707 variant, probably around twenty years old. No wonder our tickets were so cheap.