A Satisfying Day – in the End

It was an ordinary afternoon. A typical day in the normally boring routine of a military airfield.

Then.

An F-16 landed. It was from a Belgian Air Force base called Beauvechain. This place is where the redoubtable Adjutant Premiere (Warrant Officer First Class) Henri Heroufosse works; perhaps more about dear Henri at another time.

The F-16 was not feeling very well. We had nobody in our group who was able to sign for a repair on it although there were several of us who could give a valid opinion on what ailed it.

The Belgian Air Force sent an expert. Dirk arrived in a Magistere aircraft flown by a Walloon pilot.

Now, just to make this clear; Belgian is divided by two groups of people. There are the French speaking people who, they believe, are naturally superior and then there are the ‘underclass’ called the Flemish people who speak a form of Dutch. There are, in many places, huge posters up advocating ‘Seperatisme’.

Racism is not just a question of colour, as there are those who will have you believe. It is disgusting where, and how, ever it happens.

The F-16 is a single seat fighter aircraft—or this one was. We watched, at this point somewhat fascinated, as the Magistere taxied out and took off and then focussed our attention on the person that had climbed out of it. ‘Was there,’ we asked, ‘anything he needed?’

He assured us that he had everything in his tool box so we satisfied ourselves with watching.

Eventually, task completed, he stood back while the pilot got in, we did the start drill and the aircraft disappeared.

At this point I asked the fellow about his return arrangements. How was he supposed to get back to Beauvechain?

He shrugged and told me that the instruction had been to get in the Magistere, come to us, fix the F-16. There was no more added to that.

I telephoned the Belgian Air Force at Beauvechain. They had no idea.

I telephoned the Belgian Air Force HQ in Waterloo. They had no idea. Perhaps I could call again tomorrow when they would ‘sort something out’.

Tomorrow, eh?

He and I went up to the Sergeant’s mess since our ‘guest’ was a Senior Non-Commissioned Officer (SNCO). They told me that there was no reciprocal agreement between them and the BAF (Belgian Air Force) so there was nothing could be done. Perhaps he could find a hotel overnight?

At this point I explained to them that he was wearing coveralls, he is greasy and carrying a tool box. He has no cash, no identification—nothing. Furthermore, his wife is heavily pregnant and he is concerned for her well-being.

Nothing. Unmoved. After more remonstration, part of which involved me explaining that this was one of the reasons I did not use the Sergeant’s Mess because they were all a**holes in there, we departed for the Motor Transport section.

“I’m sorry, we can’t help you,” the Sergeant said.

I emphasised the importance of getting him home because his wife...

Nothing. No entreaty. No problem was too small that it couldn’t be brushed aside or ignored.

We managed to get to Station Headquarters (SHQ – known to all and sundry as ‘Handbrake House’) before they shut for the day.

“Could you give him a travel warrant, he needs to get home?”

“Sorry. Not possible.”

“What is possible?”

“Nothing. Not our problem.”

I saw, in his office, the Officer in Charge of SHQ. A Squadron Leader.

“You can’t go in there,” some Corporal told me. How close was he to death at that point he will never know. I went ‘in there’.

After explaining the situation to the Officer who, at least, gave ear and sympathy to the fellow’s plight, I had a flash of inspiration.

“Sir, I am embarrassed and ashamed at the reaction of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force to one of our allies within the Structure of NATO. I am disheartened by the negative response at his plight and the ‘jobs worth’ attitude of my colleagues. Enough of this nonsense. This man stands before you with nothing. Nothing. He is a stranger stranded on a foreign military base, he knows nobody here and those nobodies are not willing to help. This is disgraceful. One wonders how we should feel if we were in his shoes. One wonders how the Americans would have dealt with it, for example. Why has it become such an issue? To hell with this crap. I will drive him home myself.”

“Good plan, Chief,” he said, “I will sign any claim you care to bring for travel expenses. It is quite far.”

“It is quite far for both of us. Possibly it is even farther for him—to walk.”

My Boss was notified that I was going; we got into my Mercedes 300D Left Hand Drive (that I bought very cheaply courtesy of an ‘about turn’ by the German Government) and set off for Belgium.

The intention was that I should drop him off at his house, which was only a couple of hours away, and then return home.

The best laid plans, as they say, ‘gang aft agley’!

The man was called Dirk. Dirk Schmet von Bever. A lovely fellow and great company on the trip into Belgium.

At the house his wife was so pleased to see him. She had received a message from Beauvechain telling her that they had no clue when he would be able to return.

His little girl, Marijke, rushed to me with a book shouting, “HonselGretel, Kek, Kek.”

I had no idea what she meant but a glance at the book quickly resolved her words into ‘Hansel and Gretel’. She was telling me to ‘look, look’.

Mrs. Dirk, her name eludes me for the moment, went to get changed. It seems that they also had a plan that involved something called ‘mosselsuppe’.

I also had a sneaky feeling that I had seen her before. Something vaguely familiar about her that I could not place. She was, as Dirk had described, extremely pregnant. Her appearance was, in reality, that of a large beach ball with legs and a small superstructure. There was concern in my head about the safety of going out for fear that the baby might make an immediate appearance.

We went to a place that was flat. Fields and fields full of vegetables it seemed. In the middle of this expanse of nothingness was a square block of a house. At the bottom of the house was a restaurant that specialised in ‘mosselsuppe’.

We were presented with a vast bowl containing mussels in their shells, A large plate of salad and another large plate, each, of chips (potato fries). Once we had managed to shell the mussels there was soup at the bottom with the mussels, now naked, in it.

It was utterly delicious. So very, very good. I was stuffed.

When I dropped him and his family off at the house I said to him that I still had this feeling that I had seen his wife before.

“Oh, yes. You probably have,” he laughed, “She is an actress. She was in the ‘Fa’ commercials.”

‘Ding’! Le petit soleil flashed on in my head. There was an advert for shower gel on the Belgian network in which this rather well built young lady rinses off the suds in the shower from her... her... superstructure.

What do you say at that point? “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise your wife with her clothes on,” springs to mind.

I think I just came out with a somewhat lame, “Oh!” and left.

Over twenty-six years later Dirk’s daughter will be over thirty. I hope she takes after his wife and not Dirk.

I understand he went to Curacao to work for ‘Sabena’ but the rest is lost in the mists of time.

So much trouble, so much to be ashamed of. So little help for a stranger who just wanted to go home. Was there no shame, no guilt in the minds of those who abandoned him? How hard would it have been to wait for half an hour to see if he needed a flight home?

Who sent him, without any identification or cash, to another country? What sort of pre-planning, forethought, went into that?

None.

The only thought was, “Rescue the F-16 and pilot.”

End of plan.

Dirk was, essentially, disposable.

After all this time I cannot remember Dirk’s face.

I remember his wife.

Parts of her.

In the shower...