Flying the Desk Solo

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Having got my feet firmly under the desk (and feeling relaxed enough that sometimes they are on top of the desk) it was time to explore the surrounding countryside. My excuse was the monthly G1 conference to be held at Mrkonjic Grad, a short trip down MSR Gull. On the agenda was the disposal of welfare funds, so armed with a request for ping-pong bats from the SQMS of MND (SW) I grabbed my crash-kit and hopped in my Landrover. A word on the crash-kits: these consist of sleeping bag, body armour, helmet, webbing, rations and other miscellaneous items to allow us to survive should a breakdown or accident happen. As can be imagined this lot is heavy, awkward shaped and does not seem to fit into a sensible sized bag. Accordingly any gathering of troops who have travelled to a meeting sees them staggering under Bergens of kit or hung about with items like a gypsy caravan.

The Landrover was a very modern civilian model, so the risk of a numb posterior known by all who have travelled in the military version was somewhat reduced and creature comforts like a radio and a ventilation system slightly more sophisticated than the familiar hole in the dashboard were provided. A further culture-shock came with being armed. It seemed more than a little odd to draw pistol and ammunition when not on a range, let alone strapping same on, going to a couple of meetings and then on a drive in the country. MSR Gull is a spectacular route which follows the course of the river Vrbas (the meandering one in the first episode). South of Banja Luka the landscape is more mountainous than that seen from the flight in. The road clings to the side of sheer cliffs covered in trees, occasionally cutting into the rock through overhangs. The scene is similar to a fjord or the Oker valley in Southern Germany. Below the river has large patches of white water but in the main the colour of deep cloudy emeralds. Whether this is because of the reflection of the trees, some kind of mineral content or pollution it is hard to tell ! Certainly the plastic bags trapped in the branches of the trees from the flood season bear testimony to the locals’ attitude to waste disposal.

This idyll was spoilt about five minutes drive from Mrkonjic Grad. We had been warned at OPTAG about Balkan driving, and the roadside memorials to the dead from car accidents are more frequent than signs for farm shops and secluded pubs back home (far more: on one stretch we passed a stone every 100 yards). My driver had commented on how little traffic we had seen and the reason became evident when we arrived at the rear of what was to become the biggest traffic jam I have seen since last on the M25. Going forward to investigate I discovered a collision between a car and a van which had taken place as a result of overtaking on a blind bend. The occupants of the car had been thrown through the windscreen (no seatbelts are worn here) and the whole scene was a mess. This was my first experience of this kind of thing and while training prepares one for it, it still had a considerable impact. Perhaps most poignant in the aftermath was the pair of shoes worn by one of the injured cast aside in a mess of blood, broken glass and tangled metal. We discovered at the following morning’s O Gp that both casualties (one pregnant) had died in hospital.

Finally with the help of a translator who enabled me to communicate with the police with a little more than “dobar dan”, “pivo” and hand gestures we were able to clear the road and continue to our destination. During all the delay the locals had still pressed on by when they could, skirting round the crash site on a narrow strip of grass between the wreckage and a sheer drop into a ravine. Unsurprisingly bearing in mind the delays caused by the accident the conference had been cancelled but I was entertained to lunch by the Welsh Guards. In true Household Division style they had set up a splendid mess (in a shed in the cookhouse hanger), bedecked with the Colours and mess silver. Note to anyone coming out here: if sent to the Metal Factory you definitely will not complain about conditions after seeing the Bus Depot at Mrkonjic Grad. Perhaps it was the gloomy weather or the flat feeling after the accident but I was more than keen to get back to the luxury of Banja Luka.

For a change we took Route Smudge back over the hills. In a matter of minutes once we got above 1000m a thick fog closed in and visibility was reduced to mere yards. When we could see again the landscape was flat pasture land spread with wild flowers, intermittent tethered cows and loose horses, one of which attempted to kick the Landrover over. We received a similar welcome in a village where we were pursued by a pack of dogs. Luckily we didn’t run one over: I wouldn’t have liked to explain to an upcountry Serb bristling with AK-47s that Fidovitch would no longer be chasing sticks (or stick-grenades). Luckily passing by the VRS (Republika Srpska Army) barracks we didn’t draw much attention as I’m not sure how long I would have been able to hold them off with my trusty Browning 9mm and 10 rounds.
Finally my predecessor got on the Happy Bus to make his escape back to the world with a big smile on his face and a bigger cigar in his pocket. I stretched out in the office with a proprietorial smile on my face and reflected that the mad tyrant of 47 Squadron was now flying the desk solo. I mean this job can’t be too difficult or stressful ! Wrong. Only a matter of hours after waving my handkerchief at the disappearing Bus I was closing up the office when a figure slipped in and informed me that he was the QMSI of the random Compulsory Drug Testing team, an organisation which had only come to (quite literally) take the piss out of us a couple of months before and were not expected again until Roulement 17 happened later in the year. The hour being 7pm this was not the best time to catch anyone in the various Squadron and Company offices to get nominal rolls, or for us to put into action “Op PEE INTO BOTTLES”, the contingency plan for a CDT visit. Thankfully the RAO had returned from leave and the estimable Sgt Wheatley RAF was still in the office so we cracked on getting everything set up. Where one is supposed to find twelve portaloos at 7pm in the Balkans to be in place by 8am the following day I am not certain but the ever resourceful RQMS(A) sorted this problem. Slowly but surely the nominal rolls of each organisation flowed in and Sgt Wheatley and I began to arrange who would do the peeing and who the watching of the peeing. For some strange reason the number of people who appeared to be on camp and the number offered up for testing seemed very different and thus new arrivals were told, “Welcome to Bosnia, now pee in this bottle (or spend all day watching others doing same)”. The preparations finally finished at midnight.

In the end the test went well. This had been a “trickle” test day (highly appropriate as many were dehydrated from the heat). We also wondered how the Welsh Guards could not supply any assistants for the day bearing in mind that what seemed to be an entire Queen’s Birthday Parade of them was hanging around ECHOS drinking coffee for a sizeable part of the day. Best of all was the Dutch soldier who asked what the Brits were doing lining up with bottles, frantically necking water. On being told she remarked “Drugs test, Ja ? I bet we Dutch would get 100%”. Finally the QMSI took his assistants and a slightly whiffy briefcase away with him and left me with a letter thanking me for our help and hoping that the test had not disrupted operational routine too much. I mean what do you think: making virtually every man-jack of about fifteen different organisations queue up for four hours clutching little jars. Don’t they know there’s a war on !

Finally on the following evening I was able to sit down with a beer and meet some more of the denizens of the Factory. One who deserves mention at this moment is the Theatre Vet. A major problem out here is feral animals, and unfortunately something other than provoking heart-warming stories in the Soldier magazine and the tabloid press about troops adopting the beasts has to be done. My predecessor had warned me that the Vet took great pleasure in doing so (one of his letters to the Vet which was not actually sent referred to sorting the problem by “slotting or drowning” the creatures) and that she would lean from the side door of the helicopter between Kosovo and Bosnia laying waste to the local fauna. Naturally I could not resist dubbing poor Mary “the Bosnia Kitten Murderer” and doing my finest Melchett impersonations. The ribbing by the assembled company got to such a stage that on a trip out with the Colonel, Mary was constantly asked (when passing the tethered cows as seen above) if she wished to borrow the driver’s M-16 to keep her hand in on her day off. Unsurprisingly Mary flew to Pristina to escape the jibes a few days later (and contrary to popular belief was not seen in the door gunner’s seat of the chopper with an M-60 crying “get some, get some”). We hope to see her back soon, even if the cats don’t.

In the next chapter I will address some further questions such as why can’t all CFT’s be as civilised as the Sunday jaunt, do the locals think we’re mad for watching people marching up and down playing brass instruments in 38° heat and why was the Colonel’s office packed with female soldiers in tight T-Shirts ?

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