Deployment and Handover

---

After a weekend’s leave (happily enough the Queen’s Jubilee Weekend) the fateful day of embarkation arrived. Against all military logic I was allowed to report direct to Brize Norton (45 minutes from home) rather than going to Nottingham (over 2 hours away) and getting a coach to Brize (3 hours back). A worrying note came when the sunshine coach from the North was an hour late: your correspondent had nightmares of being at the wrong airport, or worse a day late.

For those unacquainted with Brize, the “Rough Guide” to RAF establishments comments along these lines: “You will arrive at the comfortable departure lounge, where you will be able to buy a wide range of Pot Noodles and drinks from vending machines, but not get any change to operate said machines. Just when you have given up seeing a human being again an RAF Movements Corporal will stick his head around a door and ask, ‘alright, mate’.” The guide goes on to state: “You will be accommodated at the Gateway House, a motel-style transit hotel. Lavishly equipped with echoing corridors and extra hard-banging doors, your night will be enlivened by parties of servicemen taking full advantage of partaking in end of leave celebrations until the early hours, and those telephoning their loved ones outside your room until 3am”. On food the guide is no less complementary: “A wide range of airline meals, lovingly kept under heat lamps until dry and elegantly presented on sectioned, floppy plastic trays is available until 10pm, again offered without any apparent intervention from the human hand. Bring sandwiches”. In all seriousness the bar does a good range of beer and of course whiskey (the latter unavailable in theatre) and breakfast was an excellent fry-up.
Thence to departures ! Here one has the chance to wait in an orderly, military manner until Movements are good and ready to put you on the aircraft. Do not despair: at least two ashtrays are provided for you outside and the news stand stocks the largest selection of Gentleman’s special interest photographic monthlies outside Soho. The vending machines are now available and sell two different shades of ditch water, which on closer examination appear to be tea and coffee. An interesting point to note is passengers with their regulation carry-on baggage which seems to be made of depleted uranium, judging by the veins standing like whipcords from their foreheads. Only the British serviceman seems to be able to pack this quantity of kit into a daysack !

The flight was uneventful beyond a touch of turbulence over the Alps (which was bad enough to make an Aeromedic sit down and start fingering her rosary) and a meal which seemed to have been collected from the Gateway cookhouse the previous evening. At least we flew by charter which meant that a wide range of gifts, perfume etc was available, although to the chagrin of those on board no alcoholic beverages. I managed to get a window seat, but because of thick cloud it was difficult to see much in flight, although the Alps did show well, still with some snow on the higher slopes.

After two and a bit hours (and finally having got comfortable) we were told to put seats in the upright position and strap in as we were descending. First impressions of the country from aloft were that the scenery seemed similar to home, but just slightly different. I pinned down some of these variations: they mainly related to the colours of buildings (lots of red tiles) and crops. The scale of things was also different: the local river was just that little bit wider and meandered much more, while blocks of woodland were larger. The landscape also gave the impression of being quite empty, with settlements small and scattered and roads almost devoid of traffic. Banja Luka airport is almost certainly not a contender for the international air transport hub for the Balkans: the single strip has very high-tech unloading facilities consisting of burly local men lovingly throwing baggage onto the back of a 4 tonner. Pack your Waterford crystal decanters in hand luggage. Air traffic consisted of our 757 and a rather battered pair of Cessnas. We did not get into the terminal to discover whether the facilities were a luxurious as Brize, which is just as well as the chalk of personnel rotating back to the world were taunting us no end. The drive to the Metal Factory (punctuated by cries of “are we nearly there yet”) showed a different side of the country after the bucolic scenes witnessed from the air: yes, Balkans driving is every bit as bad as you have heard and yes, the locals seem to be training for fly-tipping and littering as an Olympic event. The first town we passed through, Laktasi, appeared very pleasant, lined with comfortable looking bars although as I was later to find out while walking out is now allowed we are only allowed to use places which have been vetted. Whether the criteria for declaring a place safe are based on the Michelin star system or more military concerns has not yet been disclosed.

A large tangle of dannert wire and piles of sandbags covered in a cam net around what looked like an industrial estate which had just been conscripted suggested that we had arrived at our destination. The Banja Luka Metal Factory does exactly what it says on the tin: it’s a big old factory which used to do unspecified things to metal. We were ushered inside to join the biggest queue that I have seen since, oh, Chilwell. Fun for all could be had with the I-Spy book of soldiers: could the fellow with the floppy hair, tweed coat and moleskins be a returning HCR officer ? Does the plumage of belt covered in multi-tools signify a Royal Engineer ? Do the thick spectacles suggest a Royal Signals Technician ? And are the people looking around in a bemused fashion thinking something like “hey, I’m in a big old factory which used to do unspecified things to metal” new arrivals ? Luckily I was greeted by my predecessor Capt Duncan Sim RA, who steered me through the booking in procedure and avoided queues by simply doing the round robin in the wrong order and getting to each stand before everyone else (or after they had gone). This was to pay dividends as small gaggles of people thinking “yes, it is a big old factory which used to do unspecified things to metal” were to be seen wandering around with arrival proformas for several days, looking for such august people as the SO3 blankets to sign to say they were here. Weighed down by several hundredweight of SFOR ID cards, ration cards, forms for cashing cheques etc I began my tour of inspection.

I quickly found (in order of importance) the most crucial places to know: bar, bed, dining room, café and, oh yes, the office. The days passed in a whirl of introductions and instructions about how things were done. In addition to my (comprehensive) takeover file I now have a bound A4 book filled with advice. I’m not sure how many names have initially stuck, but I have the next six months to remember them before handing the post on. One big excitement is that for the first time in my working career I have my own office, complete with important adjutant-type things such as the Manual of Military Law, QR’s, big files and plenty of pinboards covered in rosters and orders. The immediate team consists of the most laid-back Colonel in NATO (British), a Dutch Major who is trying to break the record for the largest number of R&R periods in one tour, a French-Canadian RSM who uses expletives slightly more than most people use punctuation and myself. We are assisted by an RAF Sergeant Clerk and two locals (one of whom brings tea in large quantities, although I gather that she performs this service largely as it provides a chance to go for a crafty smoke).

A note on the infamous corrimecs: they are exactly as one might expect when sleeping in a shipping container. Most people have done some work to make them more homely so hanging baskets outside and TV, video and DVD inside seem to be the order of the day. Now all I need to do is await the arrival of my MFO box full of consumer durables and other home comforts. Judging by certain items of literature left behind my predecessor obtained most of his reading matter from the news stand at Brize !

Working hours are fairly civilised, starting at 8am and finishing at 6pm Monday to Friday and most of the day Saturday. Unfortunately for me as adjutant I also have to throw on uniform on Sundays to brief the orderly officer and do an ammo check. I hope I can delegate these tasks (or at least share them) soonest as they cause me to miss “the Archers” on BFBS. One bonus is that the Colonel likes to do most business over coffee so morning and afternoon informal O-Groups are held in ECHOS (a sort of Dutch cross between NAAFI and Toc-H). We are also allowed do PT during the day, so even I’ve been taking advantage of the rather good facilities here. Sundays are also good for a game of volleyball, but it’s going to be a while before we Brits beat the team of eight-foot Dutchmen from HQ MND (SW).

The next thrilling instalment will tell of how my predecessor left me to fly the desk solo and my adventure when I went over the wire. Until then I’m pondering how I’ll get any adjutant work done when I have to deal with about fifteen applications to hold a barbecue each day…

---