From: "An Unorthodox Soldier - Peace and War and the Sandline Affair" by Lieutenant-Colonel Tim Spicer Mainstream Publishing, Edinburgh, Scotland. [ ISBN: 1 84018 180 X ] Introduction: "Expecting the Unexpected" One of the lessons I have learned in a lifetime of unorthodox soldiering is that you must always expect the unexpected. Try as you will, things creep up on you, and what might appear at first sight to be a perfectly normal process can rapidly turn into a very dicey situation or become completely surreal. This book is full of such events, but I shall give two examples of what I mean, illustrating both eventualities. The first incident took place during our time in Papua New Guinea, the second during a visit to an African country which will remain nameless. When the Sandline operation was in its final stages, it was thought necessary to visit the PNGDF Special Force unit which was then in training at Wewak, on the northern side of the main island. Wewak lies about two hours by air from the capital, Port Moresby, and since many people were interested in the training we were giving to the PNGDF units, we filled our CASA 212 aircraft with representatives from the government and the PNG military, including the Deputy Prime Minister and the Defence Minister. The visit went well, the standard of training - mortar training, range work, battle drills and some physical training - reached by the PNGDF was found to be impressive, and the day concluded with lunch in the officers' mess of the 2nd Battalion, The Pacific Islands Regiment, one of the elements of the PNG Defence Force. We returned to the aircraft in the early afternoon, ready to fly back to Port Moresby. At that point a rather agreeable day turned very nasty indeed. The weather was already beginning to break when we got back to the airfield at Wewak. Heavy storm clouds were building up, lightning was flickering about and there was the constant rumble of thunder. To this can be added periodic tropical downpours and winds rising to gale force. All in all, it was not the sort of day to go flying about the mountains in a light aircraft - but we had to get back to Port Moresby. Papua New Guinea - mountainous, tropical, sparsely populated - is difficult flying country at any time and our pilots, both Americans, were anxious to get away before the impending storm broke or we ran out of daylight. The CASA 212 is a great little aircraft with a few passenger seats and good freight-carrying capacity, and we took off and battered our way back towards Port Moresby against a driving headwind and torrential rain, stopping midway at another airfield to drop off some of our passengers. Then we took off again. This was not entirely wise. Visibility was practically zero and the aircraft was constantly being buffeted and thrown all over the place. It got incredibly dark, with lots of lightning and driving rain. I am never very happy just sitting about, strapped in on an aircraft; I like to stand in the space behind the pilots, so I can talk to them and see what is going on. In this case the pilots were clearly struggling to control the aircraft and were very worried about either being struck by lightning, which could knock out our electronics, or flying into a mountain. Eventually, after about an hour, when we were nearing Port Moresby and it was getting rougher and rougher, I had a conversation with the pilots, who told me that because of the visibility and the lightning they could not pick up the usual landmarks and radio beacons. Therefore they could not land - and because of the headwinds we had been battling we were getting low on fuel. In fact we were very short on fuel, and unless we found Jackson Airport soon we would have to fly out to sea and ditch. I did not find this news particularly comforting; thoughts of swimming about in dark, gale-tossed, shark-infested seas began to drift into my mind. We circled around as long as we could, trying to pick up the red marker beacons leading to the runway. We were all concerned because the airport is surrounded by hills, each with a marker beacon, and we did not want to fly into a hill while attempting to pick up a beacon. This went on for some time. Then there was more discussion about ditching and I said that, on balance, I would rather ditch in the sea than attempt a landing in the mountains or the jungle, but before it got to that would it not be sensible to fly out to sea and try and fix our position along the coast, before coming back in on a compass bearing for another go? If we ran out of fuel in the interim, we could ditch in the sea. It was not a very enticing prospect - an encounter with a salt-water crocodile now joined the one with a shark at the back of my mind - but what choice had we? Just at the point when it was getting critical, we saw, just ahead and slightly to our right, one of the red beacons. We were too low and climbed immediately, circled to the left and, through a brief gap in the cloud, picked up the landing lights of Jackson. This was a great relief, but we were still being hurled about the sky and the pilots braced themselves for landing in just about all the conditions you don't want for landing a light aircraft: terrible crosswinds, zero visibility. It looked distinctly hairy, and they advised me to go back, strap in and cross my fingers. As we came in I could see that we were crabbing about, veering from left to right of the centre line of the runway. We eventually landed, almost sideways, and out of the windows we saw scenes of incredible devastation around us. A DC3 Dakota had been blown from its position and was standing completely up on its nose and resting on the side of the hangar, while other light aircraft had been picked up by the gale and tossed into heaps, like piles of leaves. It was a total shambles. We taxied steadily towards our hangar but were met on the way by one of our ground staff, who banged on the door and then scrambled in to tell us that if we were unwise enough to switch off our engine we would probably blow away. Since we were due to run out of fuel at any moment, this prospect was pending, the alternative being to try and taxi into one of the hangars for shelter before this happened. To drive into the hangar involved turning the aircraft into the wind and this we were eventually able to do, stopping at last in shelter and in safety. The relief was considerable. Before I left the hangar I went to congratulate the pilots, who were still in the cockpit, looking thoroughly drained. I asked them if there was anything I could do and one said, 'Yes, Boss, you can help pull this cushion out of my ass. It's so far up there that I hope never to fly like this again!' So much for how the best days can turn into nightmares; now for an example of the surreal. This event took place shortly after I returned from Papua New Guinea, when we received a request for assistance from that aforementioned unnamed African country, which was then in the middle of a civil war. The first step is always to take a look at the situation and to do this I flew to the capital, accompanied by an American lawyer who had business interests in the country. We arrived in a small, privately chartered jet, and even before the pilots switched off the engines it was apparent that all was not well. Gunfire, both machine-gun and rifle, could be clearly heard, shells were crumping in nearby and the airport was swarming with troops and tanks, with many of the troops in a highly excited state but hopefully friendly. This was one of those moments when you think that some other career, like bullfighting, might be safer, but here we were and we had to get out and go and see the President. We were hustled into an armoured motorcade which left the airport at a rate of knots and drove into the city. The capital was a ghost town; Saigon as it fell must have been like this. There was hardly anyone on the streets, many of the buildings had been wrecked or looted and, apart from plenty of soldiers, there was no one about. When we arrived at the palatial presidential palace, that too was in a dreadful state. At some recent time it must have been beautiful, elegant and surrounded by well-tended gardens. Now a tank or two stood on the lawn, artillery pieces were dotted about in the shrubberies and a host of troops, rather anxious ones, watched us sweep up to the steps and go inside. As background, the sound of gunfire was somewhat louder. Once we were inside, it got really surreal, for a butler, immaculate in tailcoat and white gloves, came to ask us if we would care for some refreshment and brought us a pitcher of delicious iced lemonade. We were then ushered in to see the President for a brief, constantly interrupted meeting. Those doing the interrupting were either military people or his diplomatic staff, but their common intention was to demonstrate to us that they were allowed to burst into the presidential office and interrupt whatever was going on. The talks were somewhat inconclusive. At one point one of the officers showed me an RPG rocket tube that appeared to be stuffed with marijuana and black magic charms, which, he said, was an example of what the rebels were using. I would have been far more interested in a proper military assessment of what the rebels were doing, how far into the capital they had advanced and what they amounted to in terms of arms and equipment. However, before we could get that point across, the President got to his feet and announced that we were leaving. The lawyer and I looked at each other, wondering what was going on, and were somewhat dumbfounded when it became apparent that not only were we leaving but the President intended to leave with us. We had intended to fly out after the meeting and stay in one of the calmer and more secure provincial cities of this benighted country, but this new development was a surprise. The President declared that he had decided to come with us in order to make a brief visit to his supporters elsewhere, but when we got out to the palace foyer it appeared that something rather more permanent was in his mind. A number of his entourage were waiting to leave, all standing by a large pile of suitcases including a number of Vuitton trunks; the contents of these trunks seemed to be of particular concern to the President, and the lawyer and I speculated on what they might contain. Probably the contents of the national treasury. This presented us with a problem, not least that our jet was small and could not possibly take all these people and a great heap of luggage. We also began to suspect that the only reason we had been asked to visit was to provide the President with an escape route. However, there was no time to debate that point, for we were rushed outside and the lawyer and I found ourselves pushed in to the front car of the waiting motorcade - not the place to be if the motorcade was ambushed on the way to the airport. A large crowd of curious soldiers drifted over to see what was going on and the President got up on a four-by-four to tell them that he thought they were doing a magnificent job and that he wanted them to go on doing that while he went off to visit his army elsewhere but that he would be back shortly. That done, the motorcade departed the Palace at great speed and raced back to the airport, with tracer zipping to and fro across the streets as we sped by. At the airport, matters had deteriorated somewhat in the last few hours. The machine-gun and rifle fire had drawn closer and shells were now dropping with some accuracy and regularity. We found our pilots very anxious to leave and, having piled the President's luggage on board, the lawyer, myself, the President and a few of his chosen followers clambered in and shut the door. Those left behind on the airport ramp looked most unhappy as they watched us taxi away for a 'hot' take-off. I was in a seat looking forward, facing one of the President's acolytes who was sitting opposite me and looking backwards. As we began to race down the runway, I saw his face change and his eyes widen. Straining against my scat belt, I turned round and saw a line of mortar explosions following the aircraft up the runway, falling neatly behind us as we lifted off the runway and climbed away into the sky. Believe me, we were very glad to be going. There is a saying in soldiering circles that 'If you can't take a joke, you shouldn't have joined', and that works for some of my Sandline experiences as well as for the other part of my life as an unorthodox soldier. This is the story of those times, and I hope you enjoy it and see the jokes. ------------End-----------------------
