Band on the Run

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Occasionally as part of the job of showing the flag for SFOR and to remind the locals that we are British the UK command structure assigns a band to come out to theatre. As Bosnia has no coastline and there is not deemed to be a need for bunting the Royal Marines Band do not come and we get various Army musicians instead. After the success of the visit from the Royal Signals and Welsh Guards we were assigned a tour from the Band of the Royal Lancers. In a masterful demonstration of the art of shoulder-sloping and buck-passing the Band’s contact at HQ BRITFOR suggested that I should take on the role of hosting Officer, organiser and general dogsbody for the tour on the somewhat spurious grounds that I had Yeomanry on my rank slides and that would endear me to the Cavalry. It was graciously suggested that I find a willing Sergeant to assist, but the willingness had not been delivered to the QM’s Stores and to be fair all the usual candidates were due to end their tours between the initial brief that the Band was coming and the visit itself and thus would provide very little continuity. I decided not to avail myself of this help with gay abandon: how difficult could organising thirty musicians for eight days be, especially when I had already been handed a list of engagements including a handover of command parade, a dining out and several evenings of entertaining messes ?

As I was to discover the answer was very difficult as a result of various mishaps and events outside my control, but the week was to prove a good test of thinking on one’s feet, adapting, improvising and overcoming. Perhaps the first warning shot across my bow was the repeated insistence of the Assistant Band Sergeant Major that itineraries detailed to the minute and exact programmes of music be sent, all commencing several months before their arrival. These faxed requests came as a trickle to begin with but by the week before the flight in were a veritable blizzard and the floor of the admin office was covered ankle deep in flimsy paper rolls several yards long. Admittedly the Director of Music said at the end of the visit that the ABSM was like that, but the apparent lack of preparedness on my part was a little embarrassing, especially as some musical programmes were not confirmed by the Divisional HQ until the mornings of the performances. My programme of events for the local civilian community was a little more solid and the choice of music left in the capable hands of the ABSM. I decided to take pot luck for the official engagements and sent off a list of the national anthems of every troop contributing nation in SFOR and a copy of the Army List, highlighting each British member of Divisional Staff, so the band could learn the appropriate Regimental Marches to boot. A final complication was that I had to return to the UK to a hearing of the Summary Appeal Court in the cases of two soldiers who had appealed against discipline imposed by the Colonel, returning to theatre approximately ten minutes before the band arrived. This in turn had led to vast quantities of faxes (I mean, have you any idea how much paperwork is involved in a legal case ? I thought I did until I got involved with the law). I requisitioned two faxes and a clerk and hope I got it all right, but may have confused a civilian lawyer with the request that he arrange the national anthem of Romania, God Bless the Prince of Wales and the Ride of the Valkyries for string quintet. The Summary Appeal Court hearing in turn descended into farce as it was the prosecutor’s first case and I felt as if my two-day military law course had prepared me better to run proceedings; a principal witness and one of the appellants failed to turn up; and the remaining appellant presented himself before the court resplendent in his customary smirk, a shell suit and straggly goatee beard (this a no-no as until all legal proceedings are discharged a soldier is deemed to be still with the colours).

The eve of my return to theatre and the Band’s arrival was spent pleasantly at Brize Norton in the company of one of my Clerks, who was returning from leave and who I could tell was in the bar as I could hear her gruesome cackle from outside Gateway House. The evening was more survivable than before deployment as I had dined heartily en famille before setting out and I remembered my earplugs. The only bit of bad news was that I heard that the security state had gone up in theatre (as a reaction to the anniversary of September 11th) which was likely to curtail any performances outside the wire, despite the fact that Banja Luka is somewhat lacking in Muslim extremists and that the Serbs would have bubbled them to us in any case if the former had been planning anything. Furthermore judging by the thirst displayed by the musicians of the Band of the Royal Signals my charges were likely to suffer from acute morale failure as the heightened alert meant that the camp had to go dry. The next morning went well as I had brought refreshments and thus didn’t have to rely on the Brize ditch-water vending machines, and despite the small mishap of missing the shuttle bus to the airhead (a fifty-three seater was sent back to take me there in splendid isolation) got airborne with no delay. Eschewing the in-flight meal I settled down across three seats and looked forward to a kip and a trouble free flight. The former was difficult, the latter dead in the water within forty-five minutes of Banja Luka when an engine fault on the aircraft developed and we had to return to Luton. As the return to Luton took well over an hour and there were no bits of the aircraft obviously hanging off or on fire the assembled passengers were remarkably cheesed off, especially when imprisoned for several hours in a non-smoking area of the terminal while a new aircraft was found. And the promised refreshments were never delivered. Cutting a long story short we arrived at Banja Luka at seven PM thanks to the faulty aircraft and traffic jams between the airport and the Metal Factory caused by typically Balkan methods of traffic control around some roadworks. I had approximately a quarter of an hour to change into uniform before the General’s dining out scheduled for that evening, and my visitors had dispersed to the four corners of the globe (or at least BLMF). At least I knew they had arrived as their first engagement was for their string quintet to play at the dinner and a very smart group was forming up in the mess. I prematurely breathed a huge sigh of relief.

The following morning, accompanied by the Director of Music and Bandmaster (who I had scooped up at breakfast) we dived off to the Divisional conference for the handover parade. Here the first engagement, a rehearsal scheduled for that morning, was cancelled. This was taken in good spirit despite the revelation that on the Band’s main official engagement they were only expected to provide ten minutes of music as the rest of the hour long programme would be performed by the Dutch on the basis that the outgoing General was from Holland. The Band happily took some admin time before their afternoon rehearsal for another engagement. As part of the Royal Horse Artillery’s departure from theatre they were holding a “Last Shot Fired in Bosnia” ceremony, including a performance of the 1812 overture accompanied by live firing AS90 self-propelled guns. This was to be unique as it had never been attempted before, so naturally would require some practice. That evening the musicians slaked their thirsts (the alcohol ban having been lifted and Al-Quaeda having wisely decided not to infiltrate the heart of the Republika Srpska in order to take a pop at SFOR) in the various bars on camp. The day of the change of command parade dawned brightly and the parade passed of well, the different types of drill performed by the different contingents providing considerable hilarity. The British contribution was razor sharp, being performed by Guardsmen, the Canadian smart but performed in such a radically slower time signature that I thought that the squad had seized up and the Dutch drill was Dutch. All sorts of traditional elements invented ten minutes ago such as the age old ritual of handing the Divisional flag along a line of increasingly important aides to the outgoing commander to pass to the incoming commander and in turn along his aides in decreasing order of importance were incorporated into proceedings. The Royal Lancers looked magnificent in their Blues with chain-mail glinting, while the Dutch (in combat kit) looked a little, well, Dutch. There’s nothing like travel to narrow the mind. After a quick buffet of Indonesian snacks and Gin we set off for Manjaca ranges and the Last Shot. It was only as our slightly rickety coach bounced down the range road that I idly glanced at the ceremony instruction to see that this route was not recommended for anything but four wheel drives. I was reassured that the coach had made it for the rehearsal, although a couple of the more rotund brass players had been made to get off to allow sufficient ground clearance.

The ceremony itself was splendid. All sorts of entertainment had been laid on for the crowd including a farewell Haka by the New Zealand Gunners who were ending their attachment to the RHA. One Maori Sergeant was particularly fierce and I was fairly terrified, even though I wasn’t just about to play rugby against him. I made a mental note to decline with thanks should the England coach offer me my first cap against the All Blacks in the forthcoming test. The 1812 also went well and I’m sure that fire orders have not before been given using a conductor’s baton or such a baton used to release such large quantities of hot lead. After all this there was a drive-past by the guns and supper. In typically Brits abroad style we were given a curry buffet in a marquee in the middle of nowhere, which almost outdid in magnificence the tea, cucumber sandwich and little cakes we had been offered on arrival. It was also interesting to note the entire command structure of HQ BRITFOR at the event, especially as they had claimed to be far too busy to offer any support at all to the Gunners for the event beyond passing on my ‘phone number to book the musicians. If I’d been the Battery Commander I would have poisoned the eclairs they scoffed or put something unpleasant in the Korma. An advance party consisting of me and the Lancers’ Dixie band then set off for a gig at the BLMF Officers’ Mess, leaving the remainder to make their own way back by coach, the rotund brass-players the more so after a liberal application of the Gunners’ curry. Then struck then next disaster. No one had put up any of the posters I had made advertising the concert, so at show time the audience consisted of me. A small gang then gathered as the music floated over camp, but by nine o’clock it was unseasonably freezing in the garden and spectators were there few. I decided to cut my losses and release the band for an hour to have a warm up and get a cold one down, in the meantime getting permission from the Colonel for the bar to remain open later should an audience turn up. Of course once the rumour of late opening had passed round the Mess was full at ten. A jazz club (nice…) atmosphere prevailed, an effect heightened by moving the band into the tiny inside area and some even cut a rug. Having ensured that the players were sufficiently lubricated the music went on until nearly bedtime.

The evening rescued I had high hopes for the next day, when the band were due to play at half time for the first football match between sides from the Republika Srpska and Federation since the war, thence to an Officers’ mess event in Mrkonjic Grad. First thing I got my local clerk to contact the football stadium to confirm last minute details only to find that the Director had “forgotten” that he had agreed to us playing and that SFOR would in fact be most unwelcome. At the same time I spoke to the Adjutant of the Regiment who had booked entertainment for the evening to discuss the final arrangements for escorts and feeding the musicians only for him to offer an off hand apology that they had meant to ring me but hadn’t got round to it and that the band was no longer required. With a sense of dread I asked my clerk to speak to Prijedor hospital about the Sunday concert to be held in their concert hall. Sorry, came back the reply, but we’ve gone on strike and don’t want you. Hiding under the desk to avoid the ABSM who was making threatening noises at the back of his throat I mobilised all the locals at work to speak to the Banja Luka authorities while I got onto Intelligence and Security to check on the feasibility of a performance in the town shopping centre. Astoundingly we were given clearance, although I am not sure whether the office of the Mayor and Chief of Police or our own Field Security were more Byzantine in the machinations needed to achieve this. The only problem now was to find the requisite escorts demanded by Security to cover a group the size of the band. At the eleventh hour the defence dog section came up trumps with a group of baby Paratroopers from the London TA who were desperate for a trip outside the wire. Off set the sunshine coach, and to the astonishment of the good burghers of Banja Luka an impromptu programme of military music was put on before their very eyes. By happy chance there was a big campaign on to persuade voters to turn out in the imminent elections (this as big a problem as in the UK when apathy strikes and no one can be bothered to vote) so SFOR was associated with good, democratic things. A surprisingly large crowd of all ages gathered and most remarkably stayed for the couple of hours that the performance went on. The baby Paras did sterling work and we were certainly very well guarded against attack by the 18-25 year old female population that they kept a very close eye on. Mind you bearing in mind the warm day and the popularity of very tight clothes amongst this section of Banja Luka society I’m not totally convinced that they could have concealed all that many grenades or other weapons. The concert ended all too soon and I was struck by the warmth of many of the local people towards us, even if they did tend towards the elder end of the spectrum and were attracted in by happy memories of working together in Partisan days. Many were also intrigued by the Paras’ berets and wings which were familiar again from the Second World War. A big memory for the day was the old gentleman who insisted on shaking every hand he could get to and solemnly telling us in excellent English that it was an honour to listen to a British band. The evening was also saved as a slot became free for the Band to perform in the Foundry bar, and the Canadians were hosting a soiree which would provide some reciprocal amusement for the musicians.

After Sunday off the new week was dedicated to hearts and minds, with a programme of events at local schools. With the exception of arriving at one nursery to find the children still having their afternoon nap and consequently performing to an audience of somewhat bleary-eyed toddlers and one of the rotund brass-players pushing a coach window out (the driver merely gave a Balkan shrug and drove off leaving the bus air conditioned) these two days went without major mishap. At each school the Band were given a warm welcome and played a short programme of music before letting the children cause a tremendous cacophony on a wide selection of percussion instruments, conducted by the Bandmaster. Fairly spontaneous dancing broke out (although the baby Paras refused to join in as they were too busy playing trainasiums on the climbing frames in between looking out for 18-25 year old female terrorists) and inevitably the class clowns were revealed. At one school the clown was an adorable seven year old girl who took great pleasure in blowing a tuba (from which she got a surprisingly good note) especially when her classmates were simultaneously looking down the bell of the instrument trying to work out what lurked within, and scattered when each parp was released. One school had a huge playground so the band was able to perform a marching programme. This caught some of the audience unawares and they parted as the Red Sea before Moses when the Band stepped off. I’m also not sure if the Band themselves were used to an audience that marched with and indeed amongst them. At the end of each performance we were offered outrageously sticky cakes (to the delight of the rotund brass players) and local coffee thick with talog and so strong that the unacclimatised would be unlikely to sleep for several days. In turn I would dispense little presents for the children and bearing in mind that the weather was starting to get cold (although we ain’t seen nothing yet) the woolly gloves and hats were very popular. We also took the advantage of some good photo opportunities but I am hesitant how well the death’s head badges of the Royal Lancers would go down in the press, especially when worn by a grinning toddler. I was also photographed by a passing Reuters photojournalist doing the premature Father Christmas act, but am yet to find out if anyone actually bought the image and press release.

The biggest thing to notice was the differences between the schools. We visited three nurseries (for ages three to seven) and one primary school (seven to fifteen). While two of the nurseries were plainly for the more prosperous the third showed signs of the lack of money endemic in this region. All the children were immaculately turned out, but their clothes were patched and showed signs of wear as if handed down from older friends and relations, while their toys were obviously well loved but battered from long use. These were, however the lucky ones. There are still many refugees from the war years in Banja Luka. Even seven years after the signing of the Dayton Accords which brought the current uneasy peace to this country there are families living on the floors of sports halls, and in extreme cases in the sort of polythene tunnels used at home for growing plants. This is bad enough in the summer, but with winter fast approaching bringing with it snow and temperatures frequently around thirty degrees below freezing existence can only be imagined. The poverty is not necessarily as a result of a lack of industry but more from a lack of jobs. Add to this corruption and a deep seated suspicion of those who have moved in from other regions of the Former Yugoslavia (especially the war widows of mixed marriages) and it is hard to see how a solution can be found. The politicisation which brings about the suspicion of refugees from outside Republika Srpska (and often the dislike of SFOR) was evident at the primary school. While the younger children were content with marching up and down with the Band, those more senior were most interested in trying out their English and nascent political opinions on the Soldiers. Conversation went from a comfortable level of favourite football teams (to my regret I had to bluff as none of them had heard of Rugby, let alone London Irish) via whether I thought local beer was the best in the world (one lad raced off to get me a bottle of pivo which he pressed upon me with a fine speech about how hospitality is important in his country) to whether “Blair is the little dog of Bush” and what our chances were of catching various war criminals. I then became aware of small hands reaching under my jacket and a determined tug at my pistol. After visions of press coverage of SFOR soldier drawing Browning in playground it was a positive delight to return to agreeing that Red Star Belgrade (a notorious Serb team) could have Manchester United any day.

Finally the tour came to an end. I will gloss over the problems that arose relating to the entertainments planned for the Band’s final day (the helicopters were grounded and the Cavalry had crashed an armoured reconnaissance vehicle, so these two jollies didn’t come off) and proceed to the farewell reception. Because of some problems relating to overconsumption on the part of several soldiers on the previous Saturday it had been decided that parties were banned and the VIP barbecue area (where the farewell was to have happened) was closed. My protestations that the Band had not been involved on the Saturday and that the function planned for them was to be low key fell on deaf ears, but I was at least able to bag the Officers’ Mess garden and provide some entertainment there. After what was to be probably the last barbecue of summer there was an exchange of presentations (including a plaque and a CD of the Band’s music which it was stressed was for me personally with thanks for my efforts) and I initiated the Band in the dark arts of the Mess fire pit. We sat around yarning about the visit and going through the photographs that I had had developed that morning. With some reservations it was agreed that the tour was overall a success, especially the school visits and the last shot ceremony. Mind you next time I’m going to detail off that willing Sergeant.

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Photos

Good Works
Distributing Christmas presents to a refuee organisation in Northern Bosnia.