April 2020
On Letters Page - Message to the Editor, George Bason
Hi George,
I’ve just read through the latest issue of RAFLING News received in the post-Christmas mail. Congratulations on putting together a most readable mixture of items.
I’m flattered by the comments made by Ken Parkin about one of my pieces, for which I thank him. However, I’ve always believed that everyone has a story to tell. It’s just a case of realising this and putting it down in writing. After all, if we military linguists shared a characteristic, it’s that we were quirky. “Square pegs in round holes”
is the general description I recall from my Gatow days.
My note to you now, however, is in support of the message sent by Mick Campbell about attending the funeral of an RAF veteran he had heard about on the Facebook “Veterans Honoured” page. As he pointed out, he "felt rather humbled… as little things we do can mean a lot”. I back this sentiment 100% and commend Mick on his initiative.
In my present position as Secretary of the Huddersfield branch of the RAF Association, it is an unfortunate fact of life that I am being requested with increasingly regularity to organise RAF representation at the funerals of local veterans. Not all were members of our association; often the first we hear about them is via the undertakers involved. Although our branch is small in number – less than twenty active members – we never turn down a request, providing an RAF coffin drape with floral emblem supplemented by an optional escort with standard. Sometimes a collection is offered on behalf of RAFA, but this is not the reason we do this. Our participation is unconditional. It’s the very least we can do for fellow veterans. On occasion, our escort outnumbers the mourners. For this reason, Mick’s reaction nicely sums up our reasons for doing what we do.
Those who contribute to RAFLING’s Facebook page will be familiar with a recent history concerning a funeral for which we provided an escort at the end of November. The individual concerned had first been directed to us as a welfare case for befriending. As soon as our Honorary Welfare Officer – a jewel in our ranks – investigated his situation, she realised that his state of affairs could not be resolved by simply making him a friend. He suffered from Motor Neurone Disease, a condition rapidly deteriorating, and was living in a desperate situation. In short, our HWO rattled official cages and first got him relocated before eventually moving him to a care home with 24 hours attention at the end. I was aware of his situation in general but, due to the reporting restrictions of GDPR, was not privy to any information which might identify him.
During the funeral oration, it was stated that Colin Denton – who could now be named – had served in Gatow and at Digby in RAF Intelligence in the 1980s. My ears pricked up at this information. I immediately undertook to investigate his service career via the RAFLING Facebook page, a site I follow but in which I do not actively participate. Within hours I had contacted colleagues who did indeed recall Colin. He had been a Spec Tel based at Gatow from 1980 to 1983. All were, of course, saddened to hear of his passing, especially one member for whom Colin (“Rodders”) had been Best Man at her wedding. I too was distressed that our mutual history of Gatow and Digby could not have been established whilst he was still alive. I would certainly have found time to visit him and reminisce. Unfortunately, this is a possible weakness of the strict rulings of GDPR. I work in close cooperation with our HWO and her husband who helped Colin through his final days, but even they had not spotted the Berlin connection. Otherwise they would have told me.
Our HWO – who had been granted Lasting Power of Attorney for Colin at his request – was given the final task of disposing of his property. To this end, I have now been given various Berlin memorabilia (he apparently returned there at least once after leaving the RAF) including a “Welcome to RAF Gatow” booklet from 1980 and an authenticated piece of the Berlin Wall. All can rest assured that I shall retain these highly appreciated items in memory of the home-town veteran friend whom I never actually met.
Finally, concerning RAFA. If you have a local branch, why not pop in and see how they operate? I’m not trying to entice members away from the RAFLING Association, it’s easy to work with both organisations. It’s worth a visit, if only to introduce yourself as a linguist. I recall the looks on the faces of my now close colleagues when I first mentioned my trade. It was as if I’d suddenly grown horns or something. My old chairman used to refer to me as “Secret Squirrel”, but his new replacement is a former “Kipper Fleet” Nimrod AEO, so he was more understanding of my background on first meeting. Nevertheless, I still take occasional flak from him for my association with 51 Squadron. All good-natured, of course.
Best Regards,
Brian Leonard
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THE HOTEL INSPECTOR
In starting this piece, I state here and now that my favourite business travel hotel was the Novotel Katowice Centrum in Poland. There was no single outstanding feature with this hotel. It simply met all my requirements – comfort, friendly service, good food, and reasonable price – in one place. When planning trips in the country, I would always first try to centre them on this location.
Obviously, in my twenty-seven years of travelling on business around former socialist countries, I stayed in numerous hotels. Some of them were great, just like the one in Katowice. But when now recalling individual hotels, I find it’s the unusual – and downright bad ones – that are at the top of my memory stack.
My first long-stay hotel in 1985 was the Intourist Hotel, Kishinev, Moldova. These were still Soviet times, so the layout and facilities were basically the same as could be found in all the many other Intourist structures around the whole of the USSR. One slight difference here, perhaps, was the constant presence of an unspeaking minder every time we entered or exited the hotel. We were convinced – probably with justification – that this was the duty KGB representative overseeing and reporting on our activities. Our group of ten or so company installation engineers working at the local carpet factory was, after all, the only continuous western representation in the city then. Our lookout’s presence – like a Barcelona human statue – became a comfort for us. We missed him when he wasn’t there. Apparently, he once reacted briefly to a cry of “S Rozhdestvom!”
when the team departed for their Christmas break, but just as easily this might have been a sigh of relief.
In those days my work centred on acting as liaison between the carpet factory customer and our machinery line installation team. This was completed through visits to site every month or so, backed up by weekly telephone calls. I had to book these calls from UK around five hours in advance. I would sit in my Huddersfield office until the phone rang with the long single blast typical of international calls. A voice would announce “Kishinev!”
and my lead engineer workmate would be on the other end of the line in his hotel room. When our call ended, a loud disconnecting click would be heard. One time the click did not resonate, just the sound of a tape reversing. Then I heard my voice from the start of the conversation, to be cut off rapidly a couple of seconds later.
This incident reminded me that the US Army had used Navajo soldiers during WWII to pass on secure messages in their native language. I am convinced that we reached a similar privacy level in our telephone conversations through the Iron Curtain. Only we weren’t even trying.
Jonathan – my work colleague in charge on the ground in Kishinev – was “from up the Holme Valley”. He had the thickest of Yorkshire accents to suit. His dialect-strewn conversation was a nightmare for the resident interpreter allocated to our team at the Floare Carpet Factory. So much so that she exclaimed to me at our first meeting “Thank goodness you’re here! Now you can tell me what Jonathan is saying”.
And she wasn’t joking. If she had problems, just think of the poor person who tried to make sense of the recordings of our telephone calls. I must admit that, as soon as I started talking with Jonathan on the phone, my Yorkshire genes were stimulated. Our dialogues must really have sounded like an unknown language to the eavesdropper. What contribution to the downfall of capitalism knowledge of his request that I should order “fower ‘alfinch spindls wi reet’and threds”
made, we’ll never know. But it kept someone employed.
The Intourist Kishinev introduced me to that backbone of the Soviet hospitality industry – the “Dezhurnaya” aka the “Floor Lady”. Nearly all around or past retirement age, these matrons were admired and feared in equal measure. Products of the jobs-for-everyone communist system, their presence only ever succeeded in making an easy job harder, in my opinion. Nevertheless, once you realised that they had a most boring role and, consequently, were open to a friendly word and genuine request for help, you could play the system to your benefit.
There would normally be a Dezhurnaya’s room on each floor (although confusingly some were based on every second level) from which your room key would be handed over against production of the reception-issued “Spravka” (“Certificate”). Woe betide you if you forgot to drop off the room key on your way out. It wasn’t unusual to have one or more of the floor ladies – who were surprisingly agile when the situation merited – storm onto the provided works bus to retrieve a key in the morning. This was one of those occasions when it paid to pretend that you didn’t understand what was being said.
One of the first things I noticed was that, although the floor lady system was supposed to make access to room keys more secure, often the opposite happened. Working 12-hour shifts, the dezhurnayas would battle the boredom by visiting neighbouring colleagues, especially at night. I once found the representatives from five storeys in a single room, knitting and chatting. Sometimes they took the keys with them when they ventured out, leaving a note stating where they were, but more often than not the keys were just left out in their empty offices for residents to take or return. Anyone could simply help themselves to your room key.
It only took a little bit of friendly persuasion from me to permit all in our party to deposit and pick up our keys only at main reception. How? Easy. Ask the floor ladies to carry out paid tasks for us which otherwise would be provided by the hotel at greater costs. It delivered additional income for them and relieved the reception staff of unwanted extra duties. In this manner we got early morning calls with hot samovar-made tea (the coffee was definitely not recommended); any washing we wanted, dried and ironed overnight if required; local beers and snacks for the room; even shopping for souvenirs to take home. No wonder that some of the floor ladies were in tears when, over a year later, our party finished the machinery installation work at the factory and left for a final time. The feeling was mutual. The lads had insisted that I bring mementos from the UK to give to their favourite babushkas.
The heydays of the dezhurnayas were on borrowed time, of course, when the Soviet Union broke up. Economic sanity eventually prevailed. Nonetheless, I still had time to experience the roles played by these unique characters, probably best summed up by an incident with a floor lady in Ukraine. (I like to think that this happened in Krivoy Rog, but perhaps that’s because I find it difficult to dismiss a town called Twisted Horn, which would not be out of place in a cowboy film).
Returning to the hotel, I had noticed in the reception bar that there was a football match playing on TV. I switched on the set in my room but, despite trying all the knobs, it wouldn’t change channel from a seemingly endless report on harvest results or something similar. I fancied a cup of tea, so I called in on the floor lady. As soon as I started to mention my problem with the TV, she said “Ah!”
and strode off into my room. When there, she positioned herself directly in front of the screen. With a movement any ninja would be proud of, she slammed her hands together on both sides of the oversize set. The channel changed. Two more chops and the football game was showing. Her triumphant, toothless grin said it all. “That’s the best TV on this floor”
she added. “The others don’t work”.
Only a dezhurnaya could get away with this.
It should be mentioned at this point that the floor lady arrangement had not disappeared completely by the time of my retirement in 2012. On my last visit to Gomel in Belarus – renowned in the area for the beauty of its young ladies – I was surprised to be directed to a dezhurnaya to collect my room keys. Whilst obviously no longer one of the local comely maidens, the fact that she was still carrying out outmoded floor lady duties was a real delight to behold. I made a point of ordering a tea I didn’t really want, paying well over the odds for the service. She must have been left wondering why this strange Englishman was acting this way. I hadn’t the heart to tell her it was because I thought that she was the last of a dying breed.
Back to the Intourist Kishinev. I was also introduced here to the etiquette of hotel dining Soviet-style. Once a table was taken, it belonged to the customer for the whole evening. There was no planned changeover for new clients. Any idea of maximising covers in hotel restaurants was still years and nations away. If customers left the restaurant, their table was left uncleared. “To discourage any newcomers”
one of my workmates dryly commented. It took my intervention to persuade the restaurant management to serve us separately and relatively quickly. Yet they still couldn’t understand why we didn’t want to party the night away with them every evening.
Dining was always accompanied by a six-piece live band, playing a common set reportedly dictated by the central Intourist authorities. As soon as we heard the opening chords of “I just called to say I love you”,
we all looked at our watches. Invariably 9pm. One thing about these Soviet musicians, they were excellent, products of the widespread conservatory training. That they were frustrated with their lot was sometimes apparent, particularly when the band leader had to announce something like “This evening’s music is dedicated to the workers of Agroprom, whose national holiday it is today. Urrah!”
We had a wry smile at this, all remembering that the final piece of recorded music played at full volume before the band had started up was nearly always Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA”.
One of the worst experiences I went through was in a brand-new hotel. When based in Uzbekistan in the late 90s, I was to visit a client for the first time in the ancient Silk Road town of Bukhara. He had suggested booking into a newly opened “western standard” facility in the town. With the repeated warnings of “Don’t drink the Bukhara water”
still uppermost in our minds, my driver Andrey and I set off on our 600km road journey from Tashkent to the meeting. We made it to the hotel in the early evening, only to find that we were apparently the first ever paying guests at the establishment. Their unusual question “What time do you want us to open the restaurant?”
gave us a clue.
We were welcomed to the restaurant by a very nervous waiter. I found out a little later that he had told his new reception colleagues that he spoke English. He was petrified that his boast would be found out by his first actual client. When we started in Russian, his relief was palpable. He really couldn’t do enough to make us comfortable. When he had taken our order, he came back to apologise that the drinks fridge was not working correctly. I joked that, as an Englishman, I was used to warm beer and thought no more about it. Halfway through our meal, Andrey suddenly pointed to my half empty beer glass. There, floating on top, was a melting ice cube. Our helpful waiter had added it unseen to keep the drink cool. Too late – I’d already drunk the Bukhara water in the ice.
Just when I thought I’d sidestepped the Central Asian equivalent of Montezuma’s Revenge, it hit me early the next morning. As soon as I was able, I called Andrey and told him that we were dropping all plans and returning to a known safe haven – in this case Samarkand, around 300km distant – as quickly as possible. At this time Andrey drove the company’s five years old Mercedes with over 150k on the clock. Due to my nervous passenger tendencies, Andrey was on strict instructions never to exceed 120kph with me in the car. On this occasion, I strapped in double tight and gave him free reign to fire up the Merc. We made it back to our favourite hotel in Samarkand in around two and a half hours, for which I will be forever grateful to Andrey. A visit from the doctor and a couple of days’ bed rest in Samarkand and I was back in the groove. And Andrey was given a story to dine out on for months. But I never did get to meet the Bukhara client.
Which was the worst hotel I ever encountered? A difficult choice, but probably the one I endured in Kerch in 2003. This was at the furthest south east point of my three weeks’ journey around their country with colleagues from our Ukrainian distributor. To get there we had to first drive down the narrow isthmus of land connecting mainland Ukraine to Crimea. (Now of course territory taken over by Russia). On sighting the Black Sea, my fellow travellers decided immediately to take time out for a swim, delaying arrival at our booked hotel in Kerch by at least a couple of hours.
We arrived in the middle of a power cut. Not your common or garden localised outage; the whole town and surroundings were in total blackout. Trams stood abandoned in the middle of the road, illuminated signs were useless. How our driver found the hotel is a mystery. On arrival we were given candles and escorted to the annex block where our accommodation rooms were located. Great attention was given to guiding me to the “deluxe” room put aside in my name.
We were informed that the restaurant was, naturally, out of commission and then left to our own devices. Our hero driver set out in the darkness to find an open shop and came back around an hour later with a selection of crisps, biscuits, coke, beer and vodka. We set up a picnic in the block’s central kitchen area and made the best of a bad deal.
I made my way to bed by candlelight and quickly fell asleep, absolutely exhausted. Around 5am the lights – and remarkably the bedside radio – suddenly came on full blast. Power had been restored. Only then could I see the state of my so-called luxury suite. The fixtures and fittings appeared to be survivors of the local WWII battles, whilst any attempts to colour coordinate the furnishings had been abandoned many years before. I remember especially that the supplied bath towels were faded, multi-coloured, and paper thin. I had thicker tea towels at home. If my room – albeit unusually large in area – was the pick of the crop, what were the ones allocated to my colleagues like? I decided not to pursue the question, just to pack up and set off as soon as possible.
First we had breakfast in the restaurant: “kasha” (buckwheat porridge), loads of it; dry bread; cheese slices; and pieces of an unidentifiable meat. At least we had the chance to receive the hot drink denied us on arrival. Then it came to payment. On request, my bill was made up separately. The total – equivalent to US$ 28.00. What a surprise. I couldn’t complain about that. Indeed, it later became a topic of competition back home in the company office. Could anyone obtain a lower charge for a bed and breakfast package on their travels?
I was the clear leader in this unofficial contest for well over a year. That is, until my office colleague Juan Carlos made a trip to Argentina. He came back brandishing a receipt equivalent to US$ 19.00 from a stopover in Patagonia. To add insult to injury, he maintained that his hosts had included a steak breakfast from an outdoor barbeque in this price.
I lost all interest in this ludicrous contest after that. I am pleased to report that it suffered a natural demise, never to be mentioned subsequently in my presence. Besides, by then I had already decided to stick with hotels of known merit like the Novotel Katowice Centrum.
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EXEMPTION REDEMPTION
This is a story I have wanted to tell for many years: a tale of karma delivered. I hope it demonstrates that even amongst the darkest clouds the smallest chink of bright sunlight can break through.
A background explanation is needed to position this account. In 1998 the places of some five thousand City workers were rendered redundant overnight following the Russian market crash. Investors in the region had taken fright and immediately emptied numerous related stocks, including the Central Asian fund for which I was working. On the morning the news came out I was in Israel researching a potential specialist partner in drip irrigation for a new Kazakh cotton field project; by late evening I was flying back to London one last time to "pick things up before the office closes down”.
Within 24 hours I had gone from being a newly established but well rewarded investment consultant to an unemployment statistic. With investors pulling the plug, my substantial outstanding claims for pay, travel costs and expenses plus bonus would all now go unpaid.
I was always aware that my self-employed activity was risky, but the lure of the high potential benefits had kept me going. Nothing ventured, nothing gained had been my guideline. In the event, it was my family for whom I felt most sorry. They had backed me to the hilt whilst I followed my dream. Now, in order initially to placate my creditors, our house and car in Huddersfield had to be sold. Pride and misplaced optimism would not allow me to consider bankruptcy, which in retrospect would have been the best option.
As a result of these changes, my wife and I – plus faithful dog – moved to Blackpool to prepare my daughter’s house for sale. Having completed this, we then decided to stay in the area. For the next 18 months my daily routine was made up of systematically looking for work on the Fylde Coast. My handlers at the Job Centre were aware of my situation, classifying me as “executive”, and therefore did not insist that I take a seasonal job on minimum pay.
I applied for just about every advertised administrative position – whether or not I was fully qualified – receiving acknowledgement for perhaps one in twenty applications, with even fewer resultant invitations for interview. I was therefore thrilled after twelve months of trying to receive a respondent offer to discuss a temporary minor clerical vacancy at a hand tool distributor’s office in St Annes. With my engineering experience, at least I would have something suitable to submit here. I cleared this with the Job Centre, to ensure that I would at least get my travel expenses repaid if unsuccessful in my bid. I took a completed claim form with me.
I was met on arrival by the young man who would conduct the interview. He gave me the briefest of details of the job whilst simultaneously scrutinising my CV. It was already obvious to me that he was bursting to say something. Without warning he started „Können wir Deutsch sprechen?”
["Can we speak German?"] and continued the interview in German. My reaction: not bad grammatically but with a very distinct English accent. Then came «Можем мы говорить по-русски?»
["May we speak Russian"?] Now I was surprised, particularly as his Russian accent was remarkably good. My natural reaction was to ask if he too was an ex-military linguist; he responded tersely that he was a university graduate.
By now it was obvious to me that I had no chance of getting the job. He made a point of repeating the temporary status of the position and the fact that he had already interviewed several suitable candidates. It was apparent to me that he had simply wanted to show off his linguistic abilities to someone in a position to appreciate them. There was absolutely no requirement for knowledge of foreign languages in this job. I was simply providing him with the passing opportunity to stroke his ego.
I was seething. I just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. Although I could ill afford the cost, I immediately decided not to demean myself by asking him to sign the travel expenses reclaim form. His parting comment was “We’ll contact you if you are successful”.
This call never came, of course.
After this, I became increasingly desperate in my searches, dropping all mention of my degree and language abilities on my now much-abbreviated CV. I was already in my mid-fifties, convinced that I was a victim of ageist prejudice who would never work again. Then I got a job as a copy typist in a publishing company. Thank goodness for RAF touch-typing training.
A couple of weeks into this work, I got an unexpected call from the local Job Centre. A Blackpool company was looking for a German-speaker. Was I interested? With their help I got the position, acting as a sales office contact at a manufacturer of plastic keyrings and other business giveaways. I worked there for the next three years, proving the old adage that you need to be in work to get work. I even introduced their products to the Russian market, indicating that I still had it in me.
In 2004, following up a lead on the Monster website, I was successful in an application for the position of Sales Manager Russia at a Banbury-based engineering company. There was no age prejudice here. I was later to expand the area under my control to include the whole of Eastern Europe and Central Asia (i.e. all the former socialist countries). It was a perfect fit for me and my experience. I like to think that this feeling was mutual with the company. It’s just a pity that we didn’t find each other at least ten years earlier.
The company manufactures torque tightening equipment which it sells through a system of distributors worldwide. As part of my training I spent a period with office colleague Paul, who was the manager responsible for UK sales. During one of our conversations, the name of the company in St Annes came up. I told Paul about my multi-language interview there and how annoyed I had been then about my treatment.
Paul asked me the name of the person who interviewed me. When told, he answered “I thought so. The man’s a berk”.
He added “Did you know that he applied for your job?”. Paul related how he had been approached for his opinion about this. Reportedly this applicant had been telling other industry representatives that he was a shoe-in for this much valued position. With this in mind, and on Paul’s advice, his application was exempted; he wasn’t even chosen for interview. How I rejoiced inwardly at this news.
The following year I took part in the biannual Eisenwarenmesse Exhibition in Cologne, the largest worldwide get-together of companies involved with the manufacture and sale of hand tools. On the second day there Paul came up and asked “Can I introduce you to someone?”. It was my erstwhile interviewer from St Annes. Paul laid it thick on by saying “Brian is responsible for business with our Russian and German speaking clients”. The St Annes man did not react, although both of us knew that he had recognised me from years before. He made some excuse and left our stand as quickly as he could. This time it was my turn to gloat. What goes around comes around…
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