Coming in to land at Heathrow my mind was full of ideas for the days to come. Five days to catch up with friends, visit the latest exhibitions, re-walk my favourite stomping grounds around Hamstead Heath. So many ideas, so little time.
Such a pity that Wayne would have to work for two of those days, but hey, I was used to that. Also a pity that we were forced to fly separately, even if only an hour apart, but his was a work funded fare, mine self-funded, the cheapest available. Never mind, it was only a short flight from Frankfurt, and while I waited for him to arrive there was time for a leisurely coffee. Or better still, a half of bitter.
On arrival Heathrow was abuzz, but not in a good way. Arrival and departure boards displayed line after line of cancelled flights. News readers looked out from muted television monitors; “Breaking News” emblazoned beneath their earnest expressions. Around them, midafternoon travellers and expectant loved ones gathered in increasing numbers trying to ascertain what was happening.
Wednesday 19 June 1985. While I was in the air, Frankfurt Airport had been bombed.
Queues formed at airline information desks, but news was scarce. Too early we were told. But not too early to bring European airports to a preventative standstill. I remember the fear, the worst-case scenarios that played out in my mind. In those days before mobile phones, all I could do was wait and hope.
Unlike so many who were less fortunate than us, we were lucky, and would continue to be, as this was not the last close call we would experience as buses, trains, planes and more would be the target of those who saw terrorism as a means to highlight their cause. Living in Europe in the 1970s and 80s to “miss it by minutes” was something to celebrate.
Burnside Writers Group 