Interpreter's Dilemma

The general said, “Come now, Squadron Leader Cunnane, we all know you can speak excellent Russian

In the late 1970s I was serving as second-in-command of an RAF unit in Berlin when that city was still governed jointly by the four Allied nations: USA, UK, France and the Soviet Union. The post of second-in-command is not one that the RAF generally uses – certainly not by that title – but for protocol reasons every unit in that divided city had to have a nominated second-in-command, presumably so that if the Commanding Officer got bumped off suddenly, everyone would know who would immediately take his or her place!

Military and civilian air access to West Berlin was permitted only via one of three military airways controlled by the Berlin Air Safety Centre (BASC) located in a splendid building in down-town West Berlin. BASC was a four-power organisation established soon after the end of the 1939-45 war. Each of the four Allies took it in turn to be in command. Because of the nature of my work I was supposed to conceal from anyone who did not need to know, the fact that I could speak Russian to linguist standard. For the same reason, I was prohibited from visiting BASC.

Any interpreter (or spy!) will tell you that it is quite difficult to pretend, convincingly, that you don't understand a foreign language when you are unexpectedly spoken to in that language. I experienced this problem quite early on in my tour in Berlin when I was also, as a secondary duty, the President of the RAF Gatow Officers’ Mess. I sought permission, as a special privilege, to go to a cocktail party being held to mark the end of the Soviet Air Force’s spell in command of BASC. I pleaded that it would look impolite if I didn't attend this important protocol function which would be attended by all the commanders and their deputies from all the disparate units based in West and East Berlin. BASC HQ was just about the only location where representatives of all four nations worked together.

The RAF HQ eventually and reluctantly gave me permission to attend, with the provisos that I was not to let on that I could speak Russian and I was to be accompanied at all times by a Russian-speaking RAF air traffic controller serving at BASC. The officer selected for that onerous job had been on the Russian Language course at RAF North Luffenham with me. Additionally, all British, French and American guests were individually hosted by a Soviet officer. Nothing sinister in that, just common politeness. Because it was a social occasion, everyone wore lounge suits rather than uniform. I was hosted by a young chap called Yuri who spoke excellent English in the "North Atlantic" accent that was taught in Soviet language academies of the time. I have no idea what Yuri’s job was and protocol required that no-one asked that question of anyone else. However, my RAF host whispered to me that he had never met Yuri before. We drew our own conclusions!

It was a very pleasant, but all male, occasion with duty free booze flowing like water and everyone jabbering away as they do at cocktail parties. Everyone was trying to score points off each other but without actually divulging any national secrets. During the two-hour long party, Yuri stuck close to my side and introduced me to many of the Soviet Air Force officers and either Yuri or my RAF host politely, but unnecessarily, translated everything into English for me. It was quite fun really!

As the evening drew towards its conclusion, all the guests lined up with their Soviet hosts, to say a formal farewell to the Soviet Commander. I heard the American guest in front of me say “Good Night Comrade General” incorrectly in an atrocious Russian accent. The Russian word for comrade (това́рищ) was only ever used between citizens of the Soviet Union. The General politely smiled an acknowledgement and then it was my turn. I suddenly realised that I had become separated from my RAF host but Yuri announced me, in Russian, as Major Cunnane from RAF Gatow. The Soviets always referred to squadron leaders as major. Yuri added the name of the special unit I worked at. I stepped forward, shook hands with the general, and mimicked the chap in front of me by saying “Good Night Comrade General” in a very poor Russian accent. The general smiled again, with what seemed to me to be a sympathetic smile, and said in perfect English of the English, not North Atlantic, variety, “Come now, Squadron Leader Cunnane, we all know you can speak excellent Russian. I am very pleased you were able to get permission to come to my farewell party.”

Any further comment by me, in English or Russian, seemed superfluous. Yuri led me to the exit, smiled and said in Russian, “Better luck next time, Tony!”

My RAF host was waiting anxiously for me at the exit and had heard Yuri's final statement. "What did Yuri mean by that?" he asked.

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