Three million euro for a clapped-out old tank? What? Rommel and two other careful owners in the log book or something?

No. Much better than that. Giovanna, Tsaritsa of Bulgaria.

Yes, one of those stolen Maybach tanks, rust ’n’ all, was apparently a present from Hitler to Her Royal Highness. Well, according to a military junk collectors’ website, that is. Such taste, Adolf!

I think she’d have actually preferred diamonds if she was anything like the Bulgarian women I know, though, mate.

Maybe this claim should be taken with a pinch of salt. After all, it is well known that Queen Giovanna (called Yoanna, after she moved to Bulgaria) was hardly enraptured by the Nazis and helped a number of Jews escape to Argentina. Not the kind of news to go down well in the Berlin of the early 1940s and justify such a ludicrous keepsake being dispatched post-haste and gift-wrapped to the Balkans, I suspect...

But hang on, suppose for one second that the rumour is true. What do you think Her Majesty did with this fabulous set of wheels, exactly? Drive it around town? Like an out of control 4x4? Setting an early precedent for the privileged young woman of Sofia, 2008 model?

The mind boggles. But that’s another matter. Far more important, surely, is that this heap of scrap is worth three million euro. It’s also part of the crown jewels.

So how come it was left rotting in a field, like an abandoned potato? Just waiting to be filched by the odd mad German in cahoots with a major Major or whatever he was. Talking of which. How did they nick it? A tank? That’s really what I want to suss out. How did they surreptitiously get it out of the mud and away?  I mean, it’s a pretty big challenge, isn’t it? We’re hardly talking about a string of pearls here. (Sorry to rub it in again royally.)

So was it legions of gypsies with their horses and buckets and spades? Tipsy cranes and smokey bulldozers heaving in all directions to free the leviathan double quick before anyone actually noticed? A Sapard grant, even?

Or maybe they simply called in the Automobile Association to get the great hulk moving. I wouldn’t put it past them. Presumably the evil deed was done in the dead of night, too. Or did they just run off with it in broad daylight and whistling casually motor up the E97, gun turret at ease, waving to all and sundry in truly regal fashion? As one does. Probably. Three million euro. Need I say more?

I’d love to know how the perps did pull off the big deal, though. I have my eyes on this rather nice-looking but admittedly shabby MIG at a playground in Germany, of all places. And so what if its arse is falling out? I’ll give any lunatic collector a discount. Failing that, I am sure that I can get my hands on some scruffy rattletrap with tip-top royal heritage for, say, 500 000 euro, or, come to think of it, a goat whose ancestor was surely stroked once by a minor member of the Russian Politburo for a tad less. This is Bulgaria.

All this reminds me of another yarn concerning things tracked around in circles in more ways than one.

Picture the scene. The 1980s in Bulgaria and a company of young Dad’s Army-like national service men are on duty with one of the cavalry regiments in the south of the country.

As legend will have it, one lunchtime, a young officer and some squaddies from this band of brothers are dispatched to collect water supplies in advance of manoeuvres planned for that night. Thus ordered, they lumber off across the fields in their armoured monster, huge water tanker in tow.

A couple of hours later they come to the place to fill up. A winery. What luck... So indeed they take on liquid supplies. Crates of it, in fact. And as you can imagine this wonderful fluke delayed the mission considerably, but wouldn’t it yours?

Consequently by the time they arrive back at base, very behind schedule now and having dodged numerous search parties, the exercise is in full swing.

And so are they. The rounds in that particular tank being somewhat different than usual that afternoon, to a man they are only just about able to still stand up. Even to load up.

So commanded to charge into action in their trusty tank at once, this is exactly what they do. With wine bottles. Some of which presumably might have made it into Turkey. Heralding Bulgarian wine’s eminent modern reputation on the world stage? Or an international incident? Either way, it was hushed up. So was what happened to the officer. One can only hope that from one mess he was simply transferred to another and spent the rest of the time until he was demobbed frying chips for his fellow officers in Doupnitsa.

At any rate, if you do happen to be a newly arrived American GI somewhere down by the Turkish border and one day find an old scorched bottle of wine miraculously lying next to you in your foxhole, you’ll know where the son of a gun came from. Cheers, buddy.

Were Maybachs muddled up in all this action? Not sure myself, but as we’re on the subject of military wrecks, I am drawn to comment on the fireworks at the army depot in Chelopechene recently. The full monty that was. As was the detention of an officer’s wife at the camp immediately afterwards. Very Monty Python. I mean how was she involved? Corruption in the kitchen perhaps?

A new breakfast recipe going disastrously wrong because something really ballistic was stolen from the parade ground and chucked into the bop for military tastes, resulting in mucho gas in one big belly too far and ...and then spontaneous combustion perchance? Kabooooom.

Whatever it was, she was nabbed for being married to the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hope she tried to fend the brutes off with her frying pan, the poor woman.

Imagine the questioning back at the yard. A smoke-filled interrogation room, windows shattered, walls blackened. Wads of tenners from the traffic night shift that were waiting to be divvied up among the lads only an hour before presently lying trampled underfoot cindered and shredded into a thousand tiny pieces by the colossal explosion. Yes, it’s combative, red faces all round as a blistering spotlight is aimed fiercely in the soon-to-be jailbird’s eyes.

Then the threatening questions come thick and fast as her fake designer handbag is emptied out on the wobbly, holed table. Name? Rank? ...Gucci? Oh Gucci? Serial number? Dumbstruck, Mrs Scapegoat sits there in her tattered apron like a rabbit in the headlights as the accusations fly among the last of the smouldering tenners to float down to the floor.

Ten minutes in and now she is being nailed not only for the explosion but also the earthquake afterwards, the state of the roads, the situation in the Middle East and, of course, for supplying dope to the entire Olympic weightlifting team.

She feebly waves the oven glove still in her hand at them. Let me explain. But on a roll and impatient, the policemen cut to the chase. Ok, so where’s Bin Laden then, madame, eh? Still no comment comes from the frightened lady, merely raised eyebrows and another flurry of dust falling out of her singed hair as she shakes her head forlornly from side to side.

Then a big change in tack; a customary pause in all this thumbscrew lingo to allow monetary matters take precedence over military for a sec. Voices are lowered to a whisper.

But don’t look so worried, dear. Small tip and you are out of here real sharpish. Five hundred leva sound fair enough? The explosion was quite big after all, wasn’t it, sweetie-pie?

Pointing to the blown-in windows, the interrogators draw breath. The prisoner takes her chance. What does she say? Obvious isn’t it. Well..um...err... boys I am not sure of its serial number but I was just plugging in my brand new cheap and cheerful Chinese hairdryer when, umm...err.... suddenly there was a lot of sparks and then this huge...mum...

Something like this was bound to happen at some stage, though. The whole capital has its wires crossed one way or another, so the place is a real tinderbox metaphorically and actually speaking.

Let me finish this ribbing about military misadventures with a quote from Sun Tzu’s Art of War.

A military operation involves deception. Even though you are competent, appear to be incompetent. Though effective, appear to be ineffective. Indeed. Salutes all round, generals!