The three of us were in Syria on our way to Baghdad. Jeff, George and myself had been routed out via the Koper/Tartous ferry. The easy route, should’ve been a doddle, didn’t quite work out like that though. Georges windscreen had been broken by the overhanging arms of a JCB as Jeffs lorry had rolled back into him at the exit gate to Tartous docks. George had gone into depression mode and wanted to get back on the ferry to go back to Yugo to get a new windscreen which was out of the question. We had found a repairer and Jeff and I left him there whilst we pushed on the short distance to the Syrian border post on the Baghdad Road.
Because the true border was in the middle of the Syrian desert both Syria and Iraq built their posts on either side. It was a full days drive between the two. The Syrian one was only a couple of hours drive east of Damascus and three or four hours drive from where we had left George. Normally the last thing I would do was to leave a colleague who was in trouble but with George it was different. I also new that I could easily run back to where I’d left him if need be. I knew he needed to be shaken out of his lethargy and by putting a bit of pressure on him I hoped that he would work his way through it. Dave Stagg, our transport manager, had made it clear on many occasions that he wanted George out but I thought it would be very unfair if Staggie sacked him after this little escapade. After all he hadn’t run into Jeff it was the other way round.
That evening after a slow journey to the border post Jeff and I parked up early evening. We didn’t attempt to do any paperwork. Best leave that to the morning I thought when all three of us could go together. After a meal and a clean up we settled down to await Georges arrival. I was hoping he would arrive before dark. I had parked our trucks by the road so George couldn’t miss us, although knowing George, I knew he could still do that. At last, about nine o’clock, he arrived. I think it was still light but the area may have been illuminated but I could see that George had a new windscreen but not quite what I was expecting. He explained that the chap didn’t have a Volvo screen but he could and would cut down a sheet of perspex to fit the opening. The only way it could be held in place though was by applying loads of brown tape around the edges. This had been done and he then set off to catch us up, however, he soon found out that the thin perspex bowed in and out alarmingly every time a lorry went past him in the opposite direction. It was at this time that the true mettle, or desperation, of the man became apparent.
I’d better explain that George drank nothing but Coka Cola. Not Pepsi, tea, coffee, even water. No, nothing but Coka Cola and it had to be cold. To that affect he had a compressor fridge in the cab full of Coke. He also carried a supply of Coke in cases and it was to this diminishing supply that he turned to for help. He wedged one of these cases between the screen and the dashboard to help stop the perspex bowing and vibrating. It worked to a certain extent but if the screen had come out and Georges precious case of Coke had been destroyed I’m sure he would have just abandoned the lorry and made his was to the nearest airport and home. Luckily it didn’t come to that. Although it was good news that he was back with us I soon found out that Georges mood hadn’t changed much. I doubted he had checked his load recently so I had a walk around the trailer. Sure enough he had a flat. I told him it needed to be changed. All I got out of him was “I’ll do it tomorrow, I’m off to bed”. Seeing that we needed to be away early next morning there was only one thing to do. Jeff and I changed it for him.
Next day we cleared Syrian customs, never a problem here, and headed east towards Rutba, where the Iraqi customs post was situated. Luckily you didn’t meet to much traffic on this road and the screen stayed safe. We did have to apply more brown sticky tape, which George had been given by the chap who fitted the screen, every now and again. We passed through Rutba quite quickly and made our way to Fallujah where we had to do customs. Next day, after registering, we made our way to Baghdad and the Fairground. As we drove down the dual carriageway we came upon an unbelievable spectacle. An Iraqi army convoy of Faun Tank Transporters, minus tanks I must add. Hundreds of them. Filling the road as far as we could see.
We finally got to the Fairground and spent a couple of days there unloading and relaxing. Our journey back to Tartous via the lakes at Ramadi was taken at a sedate pace so as to look after Georges windscreen which was by now hanging in there by a thread. Even when we finally got back to the docks in Tartous George was still miserable but no longer in depression mode. However, I remember him having a go at the kids there who were staring at his screen. Perhaps he was worried they were after his remaining cans of Coke.
