A memory from the late 60s.

   Delivery with Wild Bill, The ex-Bomber Pilot.

   About 620 words

   Meringues.

   Anyone can make them, given a bit of practice.  Even the humble 16 year old bakery apprentice.  But getting them home, intact, is in the realms of magic.

   Getting them from the bakery to the shop can be a nightmare as well sometimes, unless it's just carrying a tray through from the back or up a flight of stairs.  At one point we supplied a shop twenty-one miles away. Twenty-one miles of twisty old fashioned A-roads.  The new van had arrived and the old one been taken away, but the new one hadn't yet been 'racked out' for trays.  So I - as the humble apprentice - was nominated to ride in the back and stop the stacks of wooden baker's trays from falling over.

   "Do you feel like a change?"  The Scots foreman made it sound like a treat.  "I've a nice wee jobbie for you.  All you need to do is stand in the middle between the two stacks, wedge the bottom ones in place with the edges of your feet and use your hands to poke back any that slip out of line.  It'll make a nice wee break away from the real work."

   I had my doubts.  But I also had no real choice

   Bill, our van driver, was a huge shaggy-haired man-mountain of an American.  A former WW2 bomber pilot who treated other traffic pretty much as he must have treated flak and enemy aircraft whilst thundering through the skies over Europe in his Super Fortress.  He told me the journey would only take about twenty minutes.

   Once again I had my doubts, but in this case I was wrong.  Twenty minutes from door to door, meaning an average speed of 60 plus.  I saw eighty on the clock occasionally, although I rarely had time to look through to the front of the van.  I think Bill regarded 'running in' a new motor as a 'make or break' process.

   For me, semi-crouched in the back, it was like a martial arts workout.  I  needed hands, feet, knees, elbows, hips, thighs, and once or twice my arse or even head to control those two roof-high stacks of trays.  The stuff inside the trays was well packed, with no real sliding room, but the individual trays had a life of their own.

   Bill called out warnings to me, such as "Sharp left" or "Tight right', but I'm not sure they actually helped.

   But we arrived, unloaded, and then I was shunted upstairs to the café for a free burger and a coffee whilst Bill hurtled around Salisbury for a while 'Picking up a few things for The Wife'.

   Then we drove back.  I'm sure we went just as fast, but sat in the front, able to see properly, it didn't seem anywhere near as frantic as the outward journey.  Once the racks were fitted I no longer had to serve as Loadmaster for the mad bomber pilot.  I rode with him a few more times, but only as an extra hand for loading/unloading when the van was brimming at Easter and Christmas.

   Bill was one of the most amiable and laid back chaps you could ever wish to meet, with the patience of Job if he had to wait for something which was still in the oven or not quite ready.  He'd cheerfully fetch and carry stuff whilst he was waiting.

   But as soon as he got behind the wheel, said "Ignition!", and started the engine he became a completely different man.  Superbly capable, but crazy.

   ===

The thing about pilots is, they learn quickly that going fast is what keeps them safe.  Slow aeroplanes fall out of the sky.  They're fond of telling you that flying is really safe, the most dangerous part of their day is driving to the airport in the morning.  They're absolutely right, but not because they're such great pilots - it's because they make terrible drivers.  Their instinct in any hazardous situation is to pile on more throttle.  Plus, they can't escape the mindset that says they can go over or under obstacles as well as round them.

That's a pretty fair summary of their general outlook, Jo  ;-)