"...We Come In Low Out of the Morning Sun"

---

An oft quoted fact is that the helicopter pad at Bessbrook in Ulster was for a time the busiest airport in the world. However in the blue corner now stands a new contender for the crown: the Banja Luka Metal Factory. The Factory has two pads controlled by an august body named Springfield Ops. How the heli-tasking centre got this name is lost in the mists of time, but rest assured that a suitable number of pictures of the Simpsons adorn the walls of the corrimecs. Pulling out my spotters’ guide I reckon that we have been host to Lynx, Gazelle, Chinook, Griffon, Puma, Blackhawk and the little ones with the sensor pods on top which no one knows the name of. On some days the scene is like something out of the ‘Nam, and this time I don’t mean Birmingnam.

We have three breeds of aviator out here: Fleet Air Arm, various kinds of Americans and those who work in the Ops Room and never go anywhere near aircraft. Needless to say the latter two types wear Flight Suits (of course nicknamed Grow Bags) at all times, and it is rumoured that they have special lightweight ones to use as pyjamas. Indeed the US Warrant Officer pilots seem to hate being parted from any of their kit and accordingly pile into dinner prepared for the defence of the Alamo, hung about with AR-15s, pistols, ammunition and for all I know concealed Bowie knives. One dressed in this fashion was also ejected from the soldiers’ bar for breaching the regulations surrounding alcohol and weapons, but I gather he had received prompt courteous service and discount prices until that point. Colt Product ? That’ll do nicely, sir ! However a certain level of style is maintained from those knights of the sky thundering in their airborne steeds: one American took his Kiwi Air Force girlfriend to Italy for a surprise weekend. By Blackhawk. Beat that the pongoes ! Mind you we do wish the choppers would stop hovering over the mess garden: the downdraft has blown over and broken about half a dozen of the big umbrellas we get free from the local brewery with a certain number of cases bought and it’ll take at least a week’s consumption by OC Signals Troop to replace them. The scene was like the black-and-white part of the “Wizard of Oz”. In the immortal works of Capt E Blackadder, “I don’t care how many times they go ‘up-tiddly-up’, they’re still gits”.

Actually I quite like pilots at the moment. A highlight of recent weeks was the visit of the Duke of Westminster performing what I am told was his farewell World tour 2002 as TA Brigadier. Naturally the task of organising the entertainments offered by BLSS fell to your correspondent, and so a walkabout of the Factory affording the Brigadier the chance to meet lots of TA soldiers at work and have a chat seemed to do the trick. A slight fast ball was that a second block of hours had to be arranged for the following day and I was short of ideas. Then a flash of inspiration struck: as a Yeomanry Officer, surely the Brigadier would like to meet our chums at the Household Cavalry. A cunning plan was struck to go to Prnjavor where a troop or two was hanging out, have a cup of tea and then go on patrol. This was dependent on getting a flight, which by much pleading and naked bribery I finally managed to do on the morning of the proposed trip. Naturally as a reward for my labours I nominated myself to go along too, which was the ideal time to arrange for a series of happy snaps to be taken. Our transport was a Canadian Griffon (a sort of upgraded Huey) and I unashamedly rubbernecked out of the door taking pictures all the while serenaded by the sound of French Canadian air traffic control over the headsets. For those that have never heard this accent it sounds like an American speaking French, and makes the Reverend Ian Paisley sound melodious and ideal to read bedtime stories to the nippers. A good time was had by all even if the Brigadier and his aides teased me relentlessly about my smart new combat vest and weapon and declared that if there’s anything worse than a Scaleyback, it’s a warry Scaleyback (and to boot that no self-respecting Yeomanry Officer would be seen is such apparel).

Other highlights of Brigadier Gerald’s visit were the tremendous chest-poking he received from an aggrieved reservist (even the Brigadier, who genuinely enjoys chatting with soldiers began to look weary as the man in question began to repeat himself for the Nth time) and my desperate struggle to prevent a Sergeant from touching the august visitor for a loan of a couple of Euros. We ended the day with a dinner, again organised by me, the preparation for which also caused some humour. I was charged with making a guest list and table plan, and of course managed to offend all the (TA) family by who was and wasn’t asked. First up was the Master Chef, who brought to my attention a Staff Sergeant who had 30 years TA service and who really needed to be there (especially if I wanted to dine on anything better than bread and water for the rest of my tour). I was then visited by a female Sergeant who wanted to know if TA Female Senior Ranks were to be represented, how the selection criteria for TA Female Senior Ranks had been established and why, if it was the case, had no TA Female Senior Ranks been invited. Realising that my interrogator was very likely indeed to be TA Female Senior Ranks I placed her on the list too. I swear blind that the Duke’s favourite old retainer and Troop Corporal for 50 years man and boy and who had served his father and father before unto generations as well as doing a lot for charity, curing the sick and returning sight to the blind would be the next to come through the door wringing his beret in his hands and asking what he had done to stop him being invited. Luckily he was on R&R, although would have been very useful had loaves, fishes and wine run short. I also had lots of fun detailing the Junior Captain to be the Brigadier’s wine orderly and enjoyed watching him scampering around replenishing his glass (and racing to the bar to replenish the bottles). As I mentioned this heat can bring out a terrible thirst in a man.

Also that evening was a party to celebrate the forthcoming Canada Day. The format for these parties is remarkably similar: book a bar, band and chef, have the relevant nation in for a barbecue and then throw open the doors to all for a beer and a dance after the food’s been eaten. I was a little offended by the posters for a recent Netherlands Contingent bash, the poster for which advertised “Dutch only. No Foreigners except by invitation”. The offence was mainly taken as I didn’t get an invitation but also because this is a British run camp so who are the bloody foreigners anyway ! I also objected slightly to a St Jean-Baptiste event on the basis that this is to do with Quebecois separatism, and that they wanted to light a dirty great bonfire in the middle of the VIP HLS. As I mentioned earlier a request to do something like this comes across my desk what seems like several times a day and the catering staff are so overstretched that they can only cope with two events an evening. This has led to alternative nights like Mondays becoming party nights. Tough life when the Colonel and Adjutant get a courtesy invitation to most events, but I’m getting sick of chicken drumsticks and potato salad. I also won’t be surprised if we get a request to celebrate something like the Premier Chief of Tuvalu’s official birthday, as any excuse seems to be the order of the day. Canada day was a bit different as they had flown in lobsters so large that I speculate that they were not caught in pots but torpedoed by depleted uranium harpoons.

More observations about road conditions. Traffic comes in three types, all with their own peculiarities (but all with no regard for safety, which is understandable bearing in mind that to get a driving licence valid only in the Former Yugoslavia there is no actual test). First is the more rural type which can also be seen in downtown Banja Luka which typically consists of a flat-bed trailer pulled by the type of tractor generally only seen in the pages of 1950s Ladybird books, or for the less flash Serb playboy about town a pair of horses. On the trailer can be anything: family members, piles of boxes or as seen one day a pair of trussed up pigs, squealing their discontent like “It Girls” ejected from the Met Bar. By far the most common, however, is the moving haystack. Once the beehive-shaped ricks mentioned earlier have been completed for some reason it appears necessary to move them about the place. Bear in mind that the stacks are pretty huge and the trailers pretty small and you can conjure up the image of what looks like a barely mobile pile of dry grass chugging it’s way through the suburbs of town. At least the one I saw the other day had a small red handkerchief tied to the back as a safety measure, but I think the driver of this haystack was probably President of the Banja Luka branch of the Republika Srpska Institute of Advanced Motorists.

The next kind of transport is exactly what might be expected in a former communist nation which has experienced a civil war: fume-belching rather retro-looking buses and trucks and the kind of old jalopy that only the more impoverished British young Officer drives back home or in Germany. Finally come the very expensive European models driven by local “businessmen”. For those who can’t afford to buy direct from Germany with the “entirely legitimate earnings” from their “businesses” another option exists: simply go into Western Europe and hire a car, then drive home and keep it. A new marketing ploy for BMW in Bosnia could be “Built by Craftsmen in Munich, stolen by Albanians in Berlin”.

Servicing all this is the local economy. The only obvious trade here (apart from bootleg CD stalls that spring up practically over night next to SFOR locations) is that of car washes, petrol stations and melon vendors. Presumably once the melon harvest is over the third pillar collapses and Bosnia i Herzegovina enters a balance of payments deficit, but at least the citizenry can take pride in their well-cleaned cars which are full of petrol and pumping out the latest tunes.

---