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This is a question War

Pooflake says: Tell us your stories of conflict. From the pettiest row that got out of hand, through full blown battles involving mass brawls and destruction to your real war / army stories.

(, Thu 31 May 2012, 11:55)
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Military Wayne Sleep
Short version:- Boom! I’m okay.
Long Version
It was Christmas, New Year 1995/96 and I found myself, along with my fellows in Radio Troop (Royal Signals), in Sarajevo. It was a ceasefire apparantely but the noise ,and various bits and pieces in the air, seemed to suggest otherwise.

Our initial place of stay had been Zetra Stadium , it had originally been the Ice rink that Torvill and Dean had got their gold medal in the 1984 Olympics, but now it was a bit broken and burnt. It was to be only temporary as a site had been selected as the IFOR Headquarters and the new place would need tidying up, and a certain level of infrastructure implemented.
We needed space to put our radio masts so we would have an Antenna field. Thankfully just outside of Hotel Terme there was a house/office which had a largish piece of grass where we could start planting all our masts and bits of radio kit. here) It was going to be a busy little place as there needed to be half a dozen masts going up, plus the RLC chaps wanted to get in on the act and put up razor wire and other local defence stuff.

Now, in order to put up a telescopic mast you first have to put down and secure the base plate, then hammer in 3 steel stakes around the base plate (distance of around 3-4 metres) to secure the lines onto before the mast is put upright.
Me and my mate Dave were beavering away on ours and I was trying to hammer in one of the steel stakes, it really did not want to go in the ground, whilst Dave was having far more success with his.
This is the bit I remember quite clearly. I was getting narked off with the stake when I turned to Dave and said “Dave, wouldn’t it be funny if I was trying to hammer this fucking thing through a landmine! Ha Ha Ha!”


Not me. I looked up to see one of the RLC chaps hop, stagger and then fall over not 20 metres away from us. A small amount of smoke was rising nearby from the ground. Two things happened at once, suddenly half a dozen chaps rushed to the casualty and started first-aid, and Dave and I turned our heads to each other (but kept our feet very still) and said “Fuuuuuccckkkkkk……”

Now, we were only 6-7 metres from the concrete road which doesn’t seem far but now it does. Our Det Commander casually saunters over the road towards us and stops himself before stepping on the grass “Oi! Dave! Spango! You’re on a minefield. Now you’ve got 2 choices, you can either use your knives (we weren’t issued bayonets) and probe yourself out for the rest of the night (Frankie Howard OOOoooo!) or you can just leg it!”
Dave, who I should mention is over 6 foot and has got long legs, turned to me with a smile and said “Spango, did I mention I used to do triple jump at school? Cheerio, Mucka!” And off he goes triple jumping his way out of the minefield and onto the concrete.

Leaving me.
I’m short, I have short legs and I’m Welsh (does this make any difference? You decide). I might as well just roll my way out of the minefield. My Det Commander sees my indecision “Maybe you should use your knife, Spango…”. Bugger that, I think, I’m outta here. So I went for it, I tried to take long strides and think high thoughts and finally (it seemed like a long time) I found myself on the concrete.

I’d like to think that as I skipped my way over the minefield that I had all the grace (and especially height off the ground and length of stride) of a military Wayne Sleep. But I don’t think that image does either of us any favours.

Footnote: The chap that triggered the mine got lucky, I’d stepped on a PMA3 but the thing misfired. He lost a bit of his foot and had blast damage up the front of him. Luckily his rifle had been slung across his chest as it took most of the blast heading towards his face. His rifle had to be binned.
(, Thu 31 May 2012, 16:28, 10 replies)
Fucking, fucking hell
That sends shivers down my spine.

Fuck. That.
(, Thu 31 May 2012, 16:31, closed)
This is a good un.
(, Thu 31 May 2012, 16:36, closed)
Fucking holy fuck-fuckitty fuck!

Have a click, you nutter.
(, Thu 31 May 2012, 16:57, closed)
Great imagery.
(, Thu 31 May 2012, 17:22, closed)

I liked the short version
(, Thu 31 May 2012, 23:17, closed)
What an amazing tale.
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 3:21, closed)
What bothers me about all this
is the fact you must have had the chance to kill James Blunt, and failed to do so.

Click for the story, but you really ought to buck your ideas up.
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 10:50, closed)
You raise a valid point.
But it simply couldn't be done. The plan was to release Blunt into the wild in Kosovo where he would be free to break apart the Bad Guys moral, infrastructure and sanity by strolling into enemy positions strumming along to "Goodbye my Lover", and if they were a particularly stubborn unit then a few renditions of "Wiseman" usually did the trick.
It was a fucking massacre.
203505 and half dead, and another 2 million odd driven insane. They swam themselves to New Zealand where they now live in trees.
The man should be considered a WMD, but we didn't lose that many chaps, so it was all sort of hushed up.
So what he says on the telly is true, he really did take Kosovo all by himself, we should parachute him into The Stan, it would all be over in 2 weeks.
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 11:31, closed)
OK, well I realise you're probably making at least some of this
up, but I'm really very taken by the idea of parachuting him into Afghanistan.
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 12:11, closed)
It's all twue, thcouth honour.
But on Blunt parachuting, I'd happily chip in on hiring a C130 for the trip.
(, Fri 1 Jun 2012, 12:41, closed)

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