These Boots Are Made For Walkin’ — ‘t Harde, Netherlands | February 1999
“Under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon.”
The line is long, too long. With the whole of the 11th Horse Artillery’s 1st Battery present in the armoury to return their rifles, it’s busy, too busy. I don’t have time for this.
We’ve just returned from the field after a week-long “green peace-keeping” training for the upcoming KFOR assignment to Kosovo. It has been a fiasco. Although there are quite a few junior NCOs and officers who’ve been previously deployed with NATO’s IFOR and SFOR contingents to the former Yugoslavia, the training was completely led by the battery’s senior Cold-War fossils, none of whom has ever been on a UN or NATO mission before. Too arrogant and stuffed-up in tradition to listen to the suggestions of their junior colleagues, they made the training a total waste of time.
The whole exercise had been a show of incompetence. A week wasted and now I’m supposed to “patiently” stand here in line, even though I’m expected to attend a debriefing session at the battalion’s Fire Support Command mere minutes from now? I decide I don’t have the time to wait and push myself through the line of soldiers toward the armoured door at the back of the room. It’s quite a struggle as, besides my own rifle, I’m also carrying my vehicle’s 12kg Mitrailleuse d’Appui Général (MAG), a general-purpose 7.62mm machine gun. When I get to the door, one the battery’s fossils, my own Platoon-Opperwachtmeester, who’s in charge of the weapons collection, stops me.
“Back in line wachtmeester, we’ve all got to wait our turn,” he snarls. What!? Isn’t the whole point of our rank insignia to show that we’re not all equal? The soldiers and most of the NCOs in this room will just return their guns and then go for a well-deserved beer in the mess. Great for them, but some of us still have work to do! I can’t believe the attitude of the opperwachtmeester, he knows my job.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to be at Battalion HQ in a minute,” I say and shove my rifle and the machine gun into his hands. Ignoring his protests, I walk out of the armoury, off to meet with the battalion commander and his fire support staff.
I walk into the meeting room a little late but, as there’s nobody there yet, I’m still kind of on time. I help myself to a coffee, take a seat, and go over my notes. As I’m reading through the papers, there’s a knock on the door and two tough-looking Military Police officers (MPs) enter the room.
“Would you be the wachtmeester van Gaans?” one of them asks with an air of confidence, I confirm. “Please come with us for a moment,” he continues.
“I can’t,” I say, “I’ve got to be at a debriefing here soon.”
“It’s really quite important you come with us,” the second MP now insists. “I’m sure your commander will understand.”
I start another protest but am interrupted, “You’re not listening wachtmeester, this is quite serious, ” The first MP roars with a breaking voice and then continues, “Wachtmeester van Gaans, you are under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon. Put your hands behind your back and please don’t resist.”
OK, that shuts me up. Assault with a deadly weapon!? The MPs handcuff me and I’m escorted out of the building. When we get outside, the battalion commander is just getting out of his car.
“What’s going on here?” he demands to know. The MPs, a lot less confident now, explain the situation. “Bring the wachtmeester back inside, get yourselves a coffee and wait. I’ll get to the bottom of this,” the battalion commander says, opening his car door. The MPs escort me to the coffee room, where we sit and wait in awkward silence.
When the battalion commander returns, he explains what happened. After I’d shoved the rifle and machine gun into the hands of the opperwachtmeester and walked off, he had exploded with anger and called the Military Police, accusing me of assaulting him. Because I’d shoved guns into his hands, the charge automatically became “assault with a deadly weapon”.
“I think we can handle this unfortunate incident internally,” the battalion commander says to the MPs. “Consider the charges dropped and release the wachtmeester.” Seemingly relieved, the MPs uncuff me, apologise and say their goodbyes. “You do seem to have quite a strained relationship with your Platoon-Opper,” the battalion commander says as he sits down with a deep sigh.
I don’t say anything, but he’s right. I have no respect for those senior NCOs who haven’t been able to make the transition from a conscript to a professional army, even though this change happened over five years ago.
During last week’s training, I had already made up my mind, I’m not going on a mission to Kosovo with this platoon. One bad experience [Read: Don’t Speak — The Hague, the Netherlands |December 1996 
] has been quite enough. I don’t trust my superiors and I don’t take orders from people I don’t trust.
I explain my position to the battalion commander and suggest a transfer to another platoon within the battalion. “If this is not possible,” I then say, “I see no other option then to formally refuse to go and accept the dishonourable discharge which will be the consequence of my refusal.” My words linger in the air as I pronounce them. With bated breath, I wait for the commander to speak… His response comes as quite a surprise.
“It’s fine wachtmeester,” he says, “I’m aware of your troubles with IFOR-2 and understand your attitude. I’ll relieve you from your duty to join us in Kosovo and will make sure there won’t be any other professional consequences for you. The only thing I expect of you is that you find yourself a place with another unit. I can’t have you return to your old position when we come back from the mission. Is this OK with you?”
Wow, of course! This is more than OK with me. The whole past week I’ve been running the conversation we just had through my mind, mentally preparing myself for a dishonourable discharge from the army. This unforeseen reaction of the battalion commander brings a whole new perspective. I thank the overste, turn on my boots and walk out of the battalion HQ, feeling relieved in more than one way.
Velvet 99 – These Boots Are Made For Walkin’ [CD-Single]. Merenberg, Germany: ZYX Music. (1999)
This autobiographical sketch comes from my bundle In the Moment: A Disjointed Audiobiography which is available at Amazon.com. (USD 9.50 for a paperback or USD 4.50 for the Kindle version)
