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Good2Golf said:It never ceased to amaze me why we FOD-walked the tarmac at the Squadron, but then didn't have any problem landing in some of the most crap-filled LZs with nary a mention of the word FOD. ;D
Well, it's like this:
Many years ago, while the earth was still cooling and aircraft had open cockpits, there were some who had a problem with the perception that pilots were idle when on the ground. The senior Warrant Officer at a small airfield was busy trying to get all the rocks painted white and lined up outside the officers' tent lines and was tired of hearing their endless banter – ”there I was, and he was like this behind me, I'd gone up before breakfast and already pranged two jerries with the old stringbag, he pulled away as the black archie filled the air around me, I gave my kite full rudder and headed for the drome and two eggs sunny side up, must remember to write up my VC rec before lunch.” The W.O., a pre-war Permanent Force type, bet his buddy, the Chief Cook, that he could get those young aviators off their butts on a regular basis, and the bet was taken. So the W.O. went to the C.O., an old cavalry type with a bad leg and hate on for anything that stunk of petrol (or that stunk of anything but horse-sweat for that matter, which explained his choice of mistresses), and he explained to the C.O. the danger of loose bits of garbage and cigarette butts on the airfield and how the loss of any air-planes because the trash got sucked into engines might delay his return to command of a Remount Station. The C.O. didn't bother asking his Maintenance Officer if the explanation made any sense because he hated the lingering smell the man's clothes left in his office, for which reason he was already drafting an annual Confidential Report which would see the man transferred to the Veterinary Corps in charge of field forges. The C.O., who secretly, or perhaps not so secretly, despised the frolicking joviality of his self-professed magnificent men, and their flying machines, readily signed off on an order making all ranks available for the W.O.'s plan, thus clearing the Mess on a regular basis for him to enjoy a large measure of good Scotch Whisky with the Senior Major, an old Gunner who appointed a Squadron Bugler to blow all calls immediately outside his office or quarters, the only way he could hear them. And thus, through the inadvertent collusion of an annoyed W.O. and a cranky old Colonel, the Air Force today still sweeps its parade squares by hand under the new-fangled name of FOD-walking.