War in the air with veterans

Smack bang in the middle of a war zone is where I found myself last weekend. I did not blitzkrieg the Ukraine, nor did I visit my in-laws.

All I did, was fly to Cape Town. Here is the short version.

Chapter 1: The veteran.

There I was, walking along the apron at Lanseria to the green bus.

Directly in front of me was a female veteran, grey and dragging her suitcase along like a crusader with a pretty young conquest.

I had both hands free as I had deposited my weekend armour at the check-in counter, making it someone else’s problem.

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In single file, like trained soldiers, we ascended the bus with huffs and a puffs ringing in my ears, marking time more than really moving forward thanks to the veteran.

On entering, she gave me the death stare and commented to the crew controller how ill-mannered the young troops are, not volunteering to help the veterans.

I made sure she heard me when I said how silly my comrades in arms are not to entrust the quartermaster with their gear.

Chapter 2: The regimental sergeant majors (RSMs).

Like troops on the retreat, we were crammed in like sardines.

The store master had ensured every nook and cranny of the cabin storage space was utilised. Enter the three RSMs – from either Randfontein or Brakpan.

This I deduced from their colourful colloquial dialect referred to as Fafrikaans. It’s that version where every other word begins with an F.

“There’s f*****g absolutely no flipping place for our f*****g luggage,” screamed the one. The others retorted in equally fluent Fafrikaans.

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I said f*****g absolutely nothing while sitting to attention.

The commander-in-chief was almost instantly aware of the mutiny and used his megaphone to instruct the deckhands to stow all excess luggage in the rear (of the plane, not the RSMs, although I would have preferred the latter).

Safety instructions followed and off we flew.

The End: Think, people.

And check all luggage in when flying anywhere. No passenger has ever won a luggage war.