Bonjour Humma Humma

He woke up with the soft light filtering through the heavy curtains.They'd managed to tie him up again. He was starting to get pissed off with the whole thing. Well he wasn't going to wait for someone to eventually turn up like they had yesterday, and the day before. He'd get loose by himself. It was probably because he was still pissed, otherwise the pain would have probably stopped him long ago. But he'd managed it, he'd got himself untied. It only took him about another three-quarters of an hour or so, and then he had packed his Bergen, and sorted out all his stuff.

All his kit had been packed in an MFO box days ago. But, when he had told his intentions to bugger off, and join the Foreign Legion, they'd thought it was a good idea for a piss-up, and started celebrating like there was no tomorrow ( or yesterday).

Although most of them had been talking about it for years, unfortunately that's all it was in the end, talk. It had started, with the intervention at Kolwaszi. The FFL had gone straight in, and it had been an Airborne drop. It was what we all missed, being disbanded from 16th Independent Parachute Brigade and posted to the Traz. It's real name was Osnabruck , but trying to get a posting out of it, was akin to trying to achieve a successful escape from Alcatraz. Hence, the name Osnatraz. Shortened to just the Traz. Nobody really wanted to go, but they'd help to celebrate the piss-up alright. Join straight in there. No fear for that. Well, they wouldn't get him this time.

It had been a bit of a severe Easter in fact. They all had been supposed to vacate the block, and go home for the break. But a fair few of them, had stayed behind, and had been getting meals in the Engineer's cookhouse , and cashing cheques through their pay office. When they had got rumbled on that one, somebody discovered a store of Compo in the attic of the block, (apparently, it belonged for the skiing exercises that were held each year, from October to April), and after picking the lock on the door, all of a sudden, there was stacks of grub. Some of the blokes had been swapping the ration packs, with some of the local German girls, and had come to quite an amicable arrangement. They just had to watch out for the nuns who were running the hostel, (apparently it was for unmarried mothers, and run by the local convent), who could be quite daunting at times, they also phoned for the monkeys, ( Royal Military Police) and the civil German Police.

He said he was going, and going he was. Though, in his cunning, drunken, brain he had an idea. They'd expect him to go to France now. So, he'd go to England, London. That would fox them for awhile, the French wouldn't admit that he was there , but they wouldn't deny it either. He already knew, of where a bloke had applied for selection at Hereford, and had packed his bags and left his Regt. He, however, did not aspire to the required standards, and in fact  did not even report for the course. The Regt., thinking that he was just another wannabe, thought no more about it. His own Regt., on hearing no more about him, decided that he had been accepted, and thought no more about it either. Hush-hush, know what I mean sir?

There he was, absent, getting paid for it, and there wasn't anyone looking for him. Needless to say, it didn't last forever, and punishments do fit the crimes, sometimes. You shouldn't use thine name in vain, least said, the better. Hooligans, sort their own.

He'd thought about selection at one time also. But the BSM, (Battery Sargent Major) had put paid to that. That, and his birthday celebrations. They were drinking American --jugs, for want of a better word , of vodka and gin in the NAAFI, and playing a quiet, ( well maybe not so quiet), game of darts. It was probably the dart, that caused all the initial problems. Well, not really a dart, as such. Had fins, could hold it in your hand, (at a push). Flew fairly straight. Painted green, with a thin yellow band and one other colour. Silver tipped, which was, in fact, a bit crumpled. That was probably due, to it being thrown out of his room window, several times. Landing on the cobbled street below, with a thud, while they all hid, below the level of the windows. Sending some poor NIG, ( New Intake Gunner),just arrived from the Depot at Woolwich, down the two flights of stairs, to retrieve it .Just to make sure it was okay. It certainly scared the shit out of all the Royal Engineers, who had been drinking at the bar. Initially, they had been laughing, as I began to draw the large chalk bullseye, on the wall, next to the proper dart board.

When they saw the jugs of vodka and gin, ( American 1 gallon jugs), put on the table they started to challenge us for a game. Then I went back outside briefly , and brought the DART back in with me.I lined up on the hockey, and after a couple of not so drunken, exaggerated sways I launched the dart at the improvised bullseye.Thud!! Bang!! Crash!!.

There was a scrape of chairs, a thunder of feet , the bar shutters crashed down, and all of a sudden, the five of us were left on our own. We had couple of more throws at the wall, but our hearts weren't in it anymore , everyone was gone, and they wouldn't open the bar, till we got out of the building. We sat down, and carried on drinking from the jugs. Luckily, we had drank sufficient, to enable us to add a bit of orange juice to the jugs .The unfortunate thing was, we had drunk the contents neat, in order to make the room for the orange , so in essence, the attempt at making the brew palatable, was well lost on us . We had got absolutely pissed trying to put the orange in.

Big Paul came crashing through the door, not so long after. He gazed at  the group of us sitting at the table, and asked in a casual kind of way how it was going. He was on duty as the Battery Orderly Sargent, and someone had obviously sent for him.He wouldn't sit down with us though. Finally we asked what was up. He asked us, where was the bomb? You mean dart don't you, said one. I butted in, it's my birthday present, and I'm keeping it. Not a problem said Paul. I just would like to know where it is. At this precise moment, if you please. It's here!,I said, pulling it from out beneath my seat. Paul went a whiter shade of pale than he was normally known  for, (his father was a African American who was a MIA in Vietnam, the helicopter he had been piloting being shot down), you could say, he had a good tan. But not at this precise moment in time, however. There was a bit of tugging and pulling, but mostly half hearted on Paul's side . I don't think he really wanted it. He tried reason in the end.

You know jock, that what your holding, is not a dart. But an 81mm mortar round. White Phosphorus, to be exact. The fuse seems to be, in lay man's terms fucked. Which means, that it could explode at any minute. What say, you put it somewhere safe, and I'll get it sorted out. Well, that caused a good half an hour's debate. After all, it was a present, what would the bloke who gave it to me say, if I were to just give it away. In the end, it wasn't common sense, or any other factor, that solved the situation . It was the fair . The fair was on, down town, and, as we weren't  going to get a drink in the NAAFI, we'd have to go out of camp, for one. Okay, I said . Fine, I'll get rid of it, for you. Promptly walking to the window, and throwing it out into the Car park. Well, through the windscreen, and onto the front seat of a car, actually. Which is how they managed to blow all the windows out, inside the camp, and on the houses, and flats facing the camp across the road. I'll draw a veil here, as the RMP's never did finish their investigation into this one.

Let's just say I managed to leave Germany and go to London. Which was also an experience.