A hand on the shoulder A story of the supernatural by Charles Roberts

Fact can be stranger than fiction, or so they say.  This story is indeed fact.  It was told to me, by a friend, one evening while we relaxing over a drink. We were putting the world to rights, then he started to tell me this story, a story which happened to him, and someone he worked with, while he was serving in the Royal Air Force in the early seventies.  Names have been changed to save any embarrassment and the location!  Well it is just an RAF station somewhere in Lincolnshire.

We used to duties about once every two months.  We’d go into the station workshops about four thirty to collect the keys and log books, be briefed by the chiefie and then make our way to seven hanger, where the cabin was.  I’d better explain.  Station workshops was always built in the shape of an H.  One of the uprights was the fitters’ bay, the other was the leccies bay, that’s ground electricians.  Between the two, in the cross bit were the offices.  You went in through the front door, up a short corridor and into a corridor which ran between the fitters and leccies bays.  If you turned to the right there was the Squadron Leaders office.  Turn to the left and you had two offices, the first was the Warrant Officer’s, and through that was the Flight Lieutenants’ office.  Opposite the Warrant Officers’ office door there was a door through to the blacksmiths and metal bashers workshop.

In seven hanger we had the cabin.  Here we could make a brew, sit and read, occasionally someone would take a small telly up there and we’d watch that, but we’d mostly sit and talk.  At the other end of the cabin was a small workshop with a work bench and vice.  Toolkits were always stood on the workbench at the ready just in case we were called to do some work.  We had to stay in the cabin all the time they were flying, but if we needed any parts then we’d have to go down to the station workshops and get them.  The duty lasted a week, and during that week we would be on call from five, when the day people went home, until eight, when the day people started.  We had to be in the cabin until they stopped flying which could be midnight, then we could go to bed but be ready to be called out.

I was on duty this week, I think that it was June or July, I know that I was in my shirt sleeves, so it must have been warm, I couldn’t drive at that time so if I needed to go down to the station workshops then either someone had to drive me there on a tractor, or I cycled, or walked.  It was about three quarters of a mile.  This particular evening I needed something from station workshops so I cycled down there, I know that it was dark so it must have been after ten at night.  I opened the front door and went in not bothering to turn the lights on, walked up the short corridor and turned left to go into the leccies bay.  I had just passed the Warrant Officers’ door when the corridor turned cold, really cold, I could see my breath in the torch light, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end and a shiver ran down my spine.  I ran to the door into the leccies bay, and through it, once in the bay the temperature returned to normal and I smoothed my hair down.

After getting what I wanted I went out through the small door at the end of the leccies bay and into the street.  Walked round to the front door, locked it then rode back to the cabin.  I came in for a lot of ribbing when I told my tale on my return to the cabin.  That is one I didn’t live down for a long time, until one night some two or three months later.  One fitter, Jock, had taken the micky out of me since I’d told of my encounter in the workshop. 

This one evening, it must have been about nine thirty or so, it was dark, that much I do remember.  He was called out to a generating trolley on the aircraft hardstanding.  Jock drove the tractor out of the hanger and round to the ‘Pan’, that’s what the hardstanding is known as.  He fixed the trolley but went to station workshops to replace the part that he’d used.  He let himself in the front door, walked up the short corridor to the main one, and turned right.  He said that he was just passing the Squadron Leaders office door when the corridor turned icy cold, he hadn’t turned the lights on, he could see his breath in the torch light and his hair stood on end.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.  He turned and ran out of the front door, jumped onto the tractor and drove round to the hanger as fast as he could.  Jock ran into the cabin and slammed the door putting his back against it and spreading his arms out as if to stop anyone opening it.  He was as white as a sheet and shaking uncontrollably, while sweat trickled down the side of his face.  We managed to calm him down, but it was about half an hour before he’d tell us what had happened.  I rode my bicycle down to the workshops and locked the front door as well as collecting Jock’s torch, which he’d dropped when whatever, had grabbed his shoulder.

Jock refused to go into station workshops alone after that night.