greystone 03

THE GREYSTONE PHENOMENON Part 3

Unbelievably there’s more. This time the events were painless and bloodless. However they were bloody funny.

Yorkie and I had been at work for at least 2 hours when it dawned on us that the “Prof” hadn’t shown his face at work. This would normally be greeted with great pleasure because we knew that when he wasn’t around we were safe.

For some reason this morning we felt that something was not all it should be, and after a short discussion as to what to do it was decided that I should be the unfortunate who went to the Sgt’s Mess to make enquiries as to the location of our great white chief.

Knock on door, wait patiently for the Mess Steward who eventually finds the time to respond to one of the Island’s lesser mortals.

“Sorry to be a nuisance, could I speak to Sgt Greystone, please?”

Off goes Einstein to pass on my message. After what seemed a lifetime the living dead returns to the door to inform me that “No one’s seen him since last night.”

Now, with the “Prof’s” record, this situation could be serious.

Back to the Tank Farm to tell Yorkie that we had a possible drama on our hands.

In the discussion that followed we went through all the possible scenarios. What would he have done last night? He wasn’t a fisherman so he hadn’t fallen off the spit. He hadn’t been to the cinema because we’d have seen him there, so he wasn’t asleep in the pits.

What was his favourite nocturnal pastime? Alcohol. Now that narrowed down the options. He wasn’t in the mess, so that left the NAAFI. Not allowed in there. Just two options left. The RE Club or the Trafalgar Club.

A few enquiries later and we’d got it down to a heavy session in the Traf Club.

Off we went to the Traf Club to see if he’d lapsed into an alcoholic stupor and was still flaked out under a table in the bar. No sign of him. This was becoming serious. He could have died and been consumed by hoards of rampaging land crabs. He might have felt homesick and be halfway across the Pacific trying to outpace the Makos and Great Whites.

Inspirational thinking leads us to the obvious. Let’s have a slow wander along the route he may have taken to get back to his billet.

The straight line route from the Traf Club to the Sgt’s Mess was right through the centre of the Port Tank Farm. Now the “Prof” would have chosen that route. Mathematically it was the shortest distance, and that’s the way he thought so it was only logical that regardless of his condition, that’s the direction he’d have picked.

Off we go on our trek. We were right. There he was. We’d found him. Wedged firmly between two 6 inch pipes. By now he was fully aware of all that was happening. He’d obviously put up a good struggle to get out but this only seemed to have had the opposite effect. He was well and truly stuck.

After a lot of effort, bad language, peels of laughter from Yorkie and myself, we pried him loose.

“No Alan, we won’t tell anybody, unless of course!!!!!! We had him now, he was ours, he daren’t put a foot wrong.

Sadly the only thing missing was the camera. What a shot that would have made.

These unhappily are the only stories I have regarding the “Prof”. However, I’ve been told that there are some good ones on the way from the two lads we relieved on the Island. One of them is quite horrific and could have been his one close encounter with the grim reaper.

Watch this space. I’ve been promised a supply of snaps and stories. So the saga of the “Prof” could still be open.