Personal Narrative: Aviation Field Depot Service

With a dreamy, nostalgic grin lining his face, one filled with hard-won battle scars serving as an eternal reminder on how much both men and innumerable others had worked to protect the United States, my Grandpa extended both of his arms out as if welcoming a long-lost friend (such as Jay was) and waxed reminiscence—his clean but no longer pearly, shiny, or white teeth on display with prominence the entire time—with regard to how the two of them were now together in Sandia, which had a six thousand foot mountain outside the base filled with “tunnels and stuff” where top-secret technical work was getting done on special weapons, both “atomic and otherwise.” Taking into the scope of consideration what little knowledge I possessed on how America
“Excellent guess, kid! I can see where you’re coming from, but what the letters A.F.D.S. stood for in our case was—and get ready to write this down—Aviation Field Depot Service.” Jay found himself unable to suppress his urge for setting the record straight. Having reached yet again with his right hand only seconds ago for his Dewar’s, he finished what remained of the delightful alcoholic taste sensation and propped his glass on its accompanying The Sound of Music beverage coaster with a brutal slam, the hardest achievable without shattering it into a million shards. “Close, Al, but you’re off by one word. It’s Aviation Field Depot
Upon landing there, they got a train ride up to the RAF Sc-u-l-t-h-or-p-e base which was a military training facility for the United Kingdom's Ministry of Defense, situated about 3 miles west of Fake-n-ham in Norfolk, England. He clarified how the base was in a worse climate than any I had ever experienced in my lifetime, because there were only four miles of land between the base—which the Royal Air Force also used during World War II—and the North Pole, while the rest was open sea. I visualized them shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Claus, imagining how cold and damp it must have