"What I Did Over The May Bank Holiday"

I’ve never done anything like this before; never displayed a vehicle in public before, never wandered around in shemagh and sand goggles in public before, and definitely never written anything for publication before – other than a few interviews, but that’s another story. So, where to start, some history perhaps?

As a result of too much of my childhood spent sitting in an attic making Airfix models and wandering across Dartmoor ranges collecting spent cartridges (and links, and flare parachutes, and any other dirty old military debris that happened to be lying around), I have always hankered after a large armoured vehicle of my own (yes, I know this is a Land Rover Association, bear with me please). When I had the time to spend on something large and armoured I didn’t have the money, now I have some money, I don’t have the time and find myself to be (slightly) more mature and practical minded. So, discussions concluded and decisions made, a Jeep is sought – WWII of course, none of that Hotchkiss rubbish. Preferably LRDG with twin Vickers, .30 cal, and sun compass.

Have you seen the price of them?

So now I have my first Land Rover. A 1980 Series III 109 FFR Recce, sporting roll bar and GPMG mount, and having lost its doors at some point in its life. It’s Military enough to satisfy that childish fascination but also practical enough to get the shopping in and transport kayak and windsurfer around the locality. A sensible and thoroughly researched decision, definitely not made on the spur of the moment at first sight of the vehicle at all.

My first challenge was the drive home. Having never driven an LR of any description before, buying one with no windscreen and setting straight off on a 180-mile journey from Suffolk to the South Coast with only a pair of sunglasses for protection seemed quite daunting. Suffice to say that the number of strange/admiring/bemused/offended looks I got at service stations and whilst traversing the M25 only served to reinforce the fact that I had done the right thing! Maybe the overnight stop for a particularly drunken party in Woking helped to ease the journey.

That was in August 2002. Just managed to fit in two London to Brighton runs before the weather defeated me (open top vehicle in sun – yes please, cold and rain – maybe I’ll wait until Spring). Then spent the winter tinkering and adding a few bits of personal kit to the collection.

So, what to do next? There’s only so long you can spend driving up and down Brighton sea front and cleaning oil off the garage floor until it’s time to brave a show. Beltring’s not until July, my great idea to take the Land Rover on a planned trip to North Devon to visit the Cobbaton Combat open day was duly shelved as unrealistic, and the London Gliding Club show coincided with a trip abroad. So by default a visit to MVT Overlord near Portsmouth was destined to be my introduction to the world of military vehicle shows.

Now, I have one rather fundamental logistical problem, a problem that caused quite a few minutes of consternation when I finally arrived home after the initial purchase. It doesn’t fit in the garage. Width is OK, although I have managed at least one ding so far. Length is OK, just, if I come in at the right angle and tuck the smoke launchers under the workbench. But height? Not good. At least three inches out and the only solution that doesn’t require major building work is to dismantle roll bar, dexion racking, storage bin and wire cutter. Obviously the reverse operation is required to get the thing ready for a show, which is not a major operation unless you decide to undertake it in the pouring rain whilst simultaneously trying to disguise the previously mentioned “ding” marks with newly purchased “NATO Matt Light Stone” paint (refer to lessons learnt below). Luckily Saturday morning dawned bright, sunny, almost cloudless, and produced a close to perfect run along the coast to Portsmouth, only slightly blighted by an almost total loss of power at precisely the moment I manoeuvred from slip road to A3(M). Not the most timely moment for this to occur but I managed to kangaroo off at the next slip whilst being watched rather too closely by a police motorcyclist. I had assumed this was the infamous “vapour lock”, it generally happens after running for around 50 miles but after stopping for a couple of minutes all is OK again. John Butcher suggests water in the fuel tank, which I will check out. If anyone else suffers this problem please feel free to offer me advice at the next show!

The author, pretending not to be

So, I arrived unharmed to find Mike Timlett in a Jeep, and Mick Bone already installed in a comfy chair. After signing in and being formally presented with a commemorative coaster, I duly parked up and pitched my spacious bivvy tent in a prime location sporting what turned out to be a constantly fascinating view into the German infantry camp opposite. Not quite knowing what to expect, I had brought along a book to while away those quite moments relaxing in the sun, but the antics of the Germans ensured I didn’t need it. Forming up every hour for inspection, then “marching” twice round the site in single file to shouts of “Links, Links, Links Recht Links” was a sight to behold. The pale skinny one must have thought that producing a slit trench seemed a great idea when he started digging it on Saturday morning, so much so that he rarely seemed to stop, and even when spotted on an infrequent break he insisted on sitting in it to admire his handiwork at close quarters. When I left on Sunday evening he was knee deep. Everyone looked very impressed.

		It’s a pity the trench wasn’t large enough to accommodate all of the Germans by the time an enthusiastic and ambitious attack was launched on them by a lone GI, who suddenly appeared next to us using John’s 101 as cover. This grinning boy, sporting authentic looking WWII GI uniform and cradling a Thompson submachine gun in his one arm grinned from ear to ear as he explained his tactics. A quick sprint from 101 to Portaloo, a wide sweep left to the brown caravan, followed by a headlong rush hitting them from the rear (the side not protected by the extensive trench network). I suspect military logic says that this attack should have been at least partially successful, taking into account that the “enemy” were all drinking tea and looking the other way at the time. Regardless, when quizzed on his return we were told that the manoeuvre had been a total failure as his gun wasn’t real and they had shot him immediately. Hopefully this diorama will be re-enacted in the Beltring arena this year.
	The public, pretending to be

And so to the Overlord arena. We followed an eclectic but strangely enjoyable mix of events which included a 300 person dog display team and two-year olds riding motorbikes through flaming hoops. Mike, John and I were accompanied by a half dozen miscellaneous and well turned-out vehicles (i.e. I can’t remember what they were, sorry!). I discovered two things in the arena; being watched by an appreciative audience appeals to a latent vain streak in me, even if I did remain anonymous behind shemagh and goggles for the duration, and not all “experts” are quite as knowledgeable as they’d have you believe…

Unfortunately the commentator can’t have had my entrance form available. Now, I know my vehicle isn’t a Pink Panther, and I do not pretend that it is. In fact, I don’t even know if it was converted to its current “recce” state whilst in MOD ownership or afterwards. However I was duly introduced as a Pink Panther, with accompanying general spiel about the Pink Panther, how useful Jerry cans are, and why the SAS always drive around with broomsticks duck-taped to their GPMG mounts. This prompted an “expert” standing next to Claire in the audience to loudly state “bah, that’s not a Pink Panther, etc etc etc” (expletives deleted). Fair enough, mate. Can’t argue with that comment so far. However when asked how he knew, he very knowledgeably explained that Pink Panthers would not have had woodland camo netting on them, and the foam sleep mat would be camouflaged, not plain green. Not, perhaps, the most compelling evidence for vehicle identification I have every come across

	Looking back now with the benefit of two days hindsight, it’s clear that you can pack an awful lot of trivial nonsense into a couple of days in a field full of military vehicles. This vague report only scratches the surface of the endless banalities that occurred; Colin regularly manning the C&S Tat stall single-handedly whilst Steve disappears to chat about anything under the sun, learning from the arena commentator that military vehicle ownership can be as exciting, if not more so, than stamp collecting, the realisation that an eight-piece marching band can actually produce music whilst consisting of five percussion instruments and two people not doing anything, the unwritten law that states if you erect a club shelter no-one will want to use it until it rains, at which point if fills to overflowing with non club members, the reminiscences of an old soldier in a motorised wheelchair which leaned heavily towards the quality of brothels in Oman (are there brothels in Oman?), and finally, it is possible to grievously offend teenagers by telling them that the GPMG they have been admiring for five minutes is actually two bits of 2x4 and a broom handle under an old kit bag.
The cause of all the trouble

Well, you can’t please everyone all the time, but sod it, it was a good weekend out. And to cap it all, I learned things…

Report and pictures by Jamie Wilkinson (343/4)
This originally appeared in the August 2003 Newsletter