This journey's end was much like many of our recent flights. Staring at the conveyor belt in desperate hope, but despite willing the next bag that came through the plastic curtain strip to morph into my case, nothing happened. I sort of realised that the game was up, when the sniffer dog was taken away for his dinner, and then the shutters came down. My fears were realised.
A very nice air movements officer explained that he would do his best to locate the bag but as for compensation, the explanation to my wife was that the RAF was not that kind of airline.
Off we went on the dusty road to Stanley; me in a huff and Linda trying to sooth me.
We arrived at the Surgeon's house and the house was empty. The doors were open and like Goldilocks, we entered. Our host soon arrived — bringing good news that the case had been found at the airhead, and it was not on the way to Camp Bastion.
That was a relief — I had been puzzling out what were the contents of that case, and could I get them replaced in Stanley before we flew by FIGAS on Monday to Saunders Island.
The simple answer to this question was that replacement was either very unlikely, or impossible.
The bag was delivered on the regular medical stores delivery to the hospital and once retrieved, I found a stowaway — Algy.
(This bear has been kidnapped and held for ransom on many occasions). He seems to bear a charmed life.