Travels in my head: Operation Sneaky Weasel.

Between 1996 and 1999 I was posted to the small arms bay at RAF Lyneham. A quiet out of the way place, about 5 miles from Swidon and the M4.

It was a large base, but the domestic side, the bit where we lived and work, was small, as the planes we flew, C130 Hercules Mk1 and Mk3, were large. Or larger than fighter jets anyway.

Lyneham sat on a hill over looking the valley down which the M4 travels towards Bristol, and also Brunel's Great Western Railway.

I had arrived here in July 1996, two months after the deaths of my Father and Grandfather, and the RAF agreeing to cut short my tour to Germany, I was posted to Lyneham.

I arrived one Monday afternoon, arrived at the armoury and was greeted by OC Arm, who would be my boss.

Hello, Ma'am, I said. I've been posted in.

You're at the armoury, she said, you need to go to PSF to arrive.

But I am to work here, in the armoury, I said.

Are you?

Yes, in the sramble for a posting, the RAF had failed to inform my new posting I was coming.

We all got used to it, and arriving after some dreadful treatment in Germany, some of which I deserved, I was an angry airman.

Rog the Dodge from my previous posts, took me under his wing, mainly as no one else would get in a car with him, and I would travel with him to visit the Air Training Corps units in Dorset and Wiltshire.

Rog drove, and nearly killed us on a weekly basis.

But I was young and thought this (fairly) normal.

At the beginning of 1997, I married again and the second Mrs Jelltex and her sone came to live at Lyneham, we got a nice quarter, which she hated. And life settled down.

Work in the armoury has relaxing hours, mostly: start at half seven, have a brew and a chat, then work to ten, stop for a brew, stop at midday for lunch (an hour), then work to quarter past four (with another tea break) and done for the day.

The armoury was opposite the post office, so my wife would visit on Thursday for a drink and chat, and so was under the impression we did little work, as we were never working when she called in.

She was more than half right.

We each took it in turns to be duty armourer, on call 24/7 for a week, via a pager, where we might have to go into work to issue or receive a weapon, or something.

I used to pretend there was something on Saturday afternoons so I could go in and listen to the footy on the radio. Some things never change.

So, anyway, you get the picture.

Lyneham was home to half of RAF Transport Command, as was, and most of the station's work was flying freight around the world and back. One thing we did above that, was support the Special Forces (SF), and had a squadron, 47 (SF) to this effect. Aircraft on this squadron had chaff and flare capability, AN/LE 40, and it was our job to arm and load these and remove at the end of flights.

As per my blog on Vegas.

So, life was fairly easy and the hours pleasant, and was in Wiltshire where Rog and I would combine our trips to the ATC units with a stopover at a real ale pub. We even suggested writing a guide we did it so much.

Now, whebnever somethign serious happened anywhere round the world, and UK citizens had to be flown out, then it was planes from Lyneham that would be sent out to do this, and if dangerous, 47 (SF) would go, armed planes and armed crew. So, we got used to keeping an ear on world news as that might effect us or our work.

Still with me?

Well, in the summer of 1999, the final part of the former Yugoslavia were breather into smaller parts, with Kosovo wanting its own independance.

One morning, the Flight Sergeant asked for two volunteers for a secret mission.

This was bloddy exciting.

So, most of us put our hands up, and I and a Corporal, lets call him Dave, were selected to go. Asked if we still wanted to, then went into his office for the top secret briefing.

This was the real shit.

Pack for two weeks and be ready for departure tomorrow morning. do not tell anyone where you're going or what you're doing.

So, back home to pack and unable to say what or where I was going. I hoped that this would make her see I wasn't just on some giant skive.

We were going to Brindisi in southern Italy, and deploy there to wait instructions.

The Flight Sergeant himself took us in the landrover to the pan to board the plane, and waiting was the crew and several guys with longish hair and a landrover already strapped into the plane. These were SAS.

Not just SAS but special SAS.

The best of the best of the best.

Unusually, we did not leave at dawn, or even just after. I seemed to remember us leaving mid-morning, flying to Brindisi and arriving late in the afternoon. We were given one of the then new Fiat Multipla MPVs. Or maybe that was later and we were taken by bus at first.

Anyway, we were taken about ten miles to a radio base, San Vito dei Normanni. At the entrance was a huge metal circular listening device, I think was called The Circus, or something, this was a High frequency monitoring array, the main reason the base existed. On the base were houses, barracks, messes, a school and a BX, all the things a GI needed when away from America.

Now, when on deployment like this with the RAF, one of the crew is appointed the impress officer, and pays out daily rates to the rest of the crew for basics and food. In theory we should have been paid by him too. But that would have admitted one of the scams they had going, being paid rates and eating for free using an MOD credit card for inflight rations.

Dave and I were abandoned, and dropped off at the old high school gym where we would be billeted with 200 SAS.

Eeek.

But they were as good as gold.

THeir Warrent Officer came to see us, told him about being abandoned, so he agreed to add us to his Impress fund, and pay as fifteen bucks a day for living expenses, which was enough for a few beers or a pizza or even an ice cream from the on base parlour.

And as the aircraft we deployed with, could be armed and disarmed from inside the aircraft, Dave and I were told they would look after the plane themselves unelss reloading of weapons was needed, so they left us.

Days were sepent laying in our cots in the gym, listing to Voice of America, which in the early afternoon was a breakfast show from Chicago. All very odd.

Days stretched into a week to ten days, then oon the night of June 11th 1999, the aircraft crashed on take off in Albania, though no crew or passngers were lost, one suffered a serious arm injury, and the plane was destroyed beyond repair by fire.

We first heard about it in the bar, it was a Friday night, on CNN with live pictures of our plane on fire.

Shocking doesn't cover our feelings.

We went back to the gym, and the passengers were dropped off during the night, wearing pajamas and wrapped in bandages, shocked to their core. We helped as best we could, and at that point we didn't know if any ircrew had made it.

They had.

At the end of the next day, Dave and I had just got back from having an ice cream, when an RAF officer strode into the gym, we were the only two RAF guys there, so he comes up to us and asks:

Are you the armourers?

Yes.

What you doing here.

We explained about the impress and all that.

He explained, they were the replacement plane, and had billets in a former married quarter, it would be a tight squeeze, but did we want to move in with the crew. They would pay us proper rates, and provide food for breakfast and could we clean the house during the day and have the BBQ fired up in the evening, adding that they would do a low flypast upon their return to let us know to light the barbie.

Yes.

Yes we would.

So, we said goodbye to the SAS in the gym, thanking them for their kindness and help, and went to the married quarter where we set up room in one of the spare bedrooms, we were shown into the garden where the brand new barbie had been lit and there was steam, burgers and chilled beers for all.

So began part two of our war in Italy.

It was hell.

We had the van too, so could go exploring, went to the beach one day, but we had no lira, so could not buy anything or pay for a stay in a car park.

Each day the crew would go out at seven, we would clean the house, have breakfast from US rations of poptarts or cereal, and live the life of riley, really.

And at about six the Herc would fly over the married quarters doing a barrel roll so we would know to light the fires.

Did I say it was hell?

After a week of this, the crew was to be changed and Dave and I were asked did we want to stay for another two weeks. It was tempting, but there'd be no telling what the new crew would be like, so we said we'd go home.

So we spent the last night in a hotel up from the harbour in Brindisi, where we walked to the harbour in the evening to watch the ferries leave for Albania and Greece.

The next morning we flew in the Herc back home, flying low over Pisa so seeing the Tower from the air.