The Loose Screw Read online

  In later years when I was considering joining the Prison Service I turned to Jim for advice. Had he told me that he didn't approve then I would not have joined, simple as that. That was how much I respected him and I still do although I haven't seen him for a while now. His advice was, as ever, simple and honest. He said, "Jim, there are good and bad screws. It's a good job providing you always remember who you are and where you're from. If you can do the job fairly, and can overcome the temptation to join in with the bad ones, you will earn the respect of the chaps doing time and keep your self-dignity intact." This advice is something I never forgot and it cropped up regularly during my career and in fact was the main reason I decided to leave when I did. Anyway, I am jumping the gun a bit. I will cover my career in the Prison Service in more detail later on.

  The situation at home was getting worse as the time approached for me to sit my 'O' levels. My parents had convinced themselves that the reason I seemed disinterested in exams and further education was due to bad influences at Eltham Green and the fact that I was still seeing Natasha. In a last-ditch attempt to push me into doing well in my exams and going on to higher education they took me out of Eltham Green and put me into a private school in Beckenham just about ten months before I was due to sit my 'O' levels.

  I don't know about you, but the last thing I would do if I knew one of my kids was not interested in further education is throw good money after bad and pay for private school fees. Not that I would not do anything for my kids if they needed it, but I would rather spend my time and money encouraging and supporting them to pursue something they enjoyed or wanted to do. In fairness I suppose they thought they were doing the right thing. At least no one can say they didn't try, and I can never blame them for my lack of academic qualifications.

  The fact remained that I knew where I wanted to be and you didn't need exams to get there in those days. I have always considered myself to be a laid back sort of guy. I think a lot of that stemmed from watching how worked up my dad used to get when I didn't listen to his lectures on how I would never get anywhere in life without at least six or seven 'O' levels. I have always lived by the simple rule that life is too short to get yourself all worked up over petty things. I have had a fantastic life up to now. I have seen things and been to places I may not have had the chance to experience had I chosen to do what was expected of me.

  Anyway, that's enough of Jim's philosophy on life. I am not knocking anyone who has gone through higher education, nor would I wish to discourage anyone who may be contemplating it. I am simply saying that it wasn't for me and it takes all sorts to make this world of ours go round, from brain surgeons to unemployed ex-soldiers/prison officers who wouldn't listen to their parents.

  The only snag with the private school was that the boys there were worse than the ones I had left behind at Eltham Green. Needless to say, the plan didn't work and on 19 September 1985 I took my oath of allegiance to the Queen in front of Major Tozer and my mum and dad at Blackheath army careers office. I had enlisted into the finest infantry regiment in the army, the Royal Green Jackets, and was due to report just five days later at the junior soldiers' light division depot in Shrewsbury.

  3

  THE ARMY

  I had finally done it, and after saying my goodbyes to mum and dad at Euston train station I boarded the train for Birmingham New Street to begin my new life. As the train sped through the English countryside I began to try to imagine what lay in store for me. The truth of the matter was that I didn't have a clue. Despite my lifelong obsession with the army and my experiences with the cadets, I had no idea what to expect and all of a sudden I felt strangely alone.

  As I mentioned earlier, my parents didn't approve of my joining. They still thought I could achieve more but, typical of my mentality, that only added fuel to the fire of my youthful dreams. Despite waiting for this moment for years -a chance to be free of the arguing about what I should do with my life and finally achieving what I saw as my independence -I felt sadness as well as excitement. I was not even seventeen and had just left home, but I felt sad that for the past few years the constant battle I waged at home had driven a wedge between me and my family, a wedge that would never really be fully removed again.

  I changed trains at Birmingham and boarded a small local line train, which was to take us on the final leg of the journey to Shrewsbury. I noticed other young men on this train who were obviously going to the same place. Some of them had already got together and were talking. I have always been a bit of a loner so I didn't join any of these newly formed cliques. I like to sit back when meeting people for the first time and make my own judgement as to whom I want to get involved with. Besides, I thought, I am going to see enough of this lot over the next twelve months. I just took the time to sit quietly on my own while I still had the opportunity. There was one guy I remember on the train who seemed to really love himself. He had a 'Joey Boswell' haircut and an expensive looking red silk shirt hanging out of his designer jeans.

  Like me, he was a London recruit to the Green Jackets, but his was the only voice you could hear for the whole journey. I remember thinking he looked more like he was off to join some gay modelling firm rather than the army, and I marked him up as a non-starter. In fact he did go the distance and turned into a very good soldier eventually, after one or two of the training instructors had shown him some guidance the only way they knew how.

  The train finally slowed to a stop at Shrewsbury Station and as it slowed I got a glimpse of our welcoming committee. Stood on the platform were about three or four corporals, all Green Jackets and light infantry, and as soon as we alighted from the train the chaotic shouting that was to become so much a part of everyday life for the next few weeks began.

  There was a group of about thirty or so of us lined up on the platform being screamed at by a rather large black corporal from the light infantry. A handful of civilians walked past grinning at the look of despair on our faces -this was obviously a scene they were used to. Even the kid in the silk shirt had shut up and was standing there looking as pale as the rest of us. As the corporal paced up the line shouting his well-rehearsed 'welcome to the British army' speech I couldn't help but think of the similarities between this and that scene in the film An Officer and a Gentleman where Richard Gere arrived at the naval training base, the only difference being that there were no officers in this line-up and certainly no gentlemen.

  We were split into groups and put on one of the minibuses in the car park. Mine was driven by an enormous, bearded civilian who was well-rehearsed in keeping the mood of the moment going with his comments on what we had let ourselves in for. As we passed through the gates of Sir John Moore Barracks on the Copthorne Road our driver shouted out of the window to the group of hard-nosed regimental police, "You can close the gates now we've got them." I swallowed hard.

  Inside the camp the scene was chaotic. There were groups of people running everywhere, some in uniform and some in civvies. We drove past a group of uniformed lads on the parade square and the look on their faces seemed to be telling us to get out of there while we still had a chance. We debussed at the administration block and as soon as we were out we were sucked into the rollercoaster ride of signing forms, receiving injections, undergoing medicals, kit issue, the mandatory skinhead cut, and being allocated to our new platoon.

  In no time at all I was lined up in the ranks of Corunna platoon awaiting the arrival of our platoon commander, Warrant Officer Class One, Wilson. Wilson arrived with the rest of the training staff and at first sight looked like the laughing cavalier with his neatly trimmed moustache immaculately waxed to a needle-sharp point at each end. The only trouble was, he wasn't laughing. He gave us his welcoming speech, which in a nutshell imparted the message, "if you fuck up, I or one of my staff will beat the shit out of you". I do admire a man who doesn't mince his words.

  In turn I was 'introduced' to my new section commander Corpo
ral 'Squid' Rumble, apparently so called due to the fact that he half strangled a recruit in his previous section and, true to his name, he liked a rumble now and again. It turned out that we couldn't have wished for better men to prepare us for our new careers. Both Wilson and Squid were highly experienced men from the Third Battalion Royal Green Jackets and both were as hard as nails.

  Wilson had come up through the ranks and had almost twenty-two years of experience behind him. This is one reason why I detested those high-flying governors that I would come across later in my Prison Service days who gained promotion on merit and by kissing the right arse. It goes back to my old belief that no amount of academic qualifications can substitute experience when you are dealing with real people in real life. All Wilson and Squid were interested in was that we learned what they taught us as it could save our lives in the future. If we performed well they were happy, and if not we got the 'treatment'.

  So effective were their 'methods' that we rarely made the same mistake once let alone twice. It's all changed now, of course. Instructors are not even allowed to touch recruits for fear of a parent complaining about their poor little wounded soldier being shouted at. Well, if you're that protective of your 'little Johnny' then the army is not the place for him. Recruits are not even allowed to run in boots any more in case they damage their poor little tootsies. I only hope the enemy are that sympathetic and allow them time to get their Reeboks on before they overrun their positions in future -what a load of bollocks! The army will be issuing them with furry pink leotards and teaching them ballet next. Maybe we could challenge the Iraqis to a knitting competition next time instead of going through that entire hassle of getting our uniforms dirty. Mind you, we would still thrash them at that!

  For the next six weeks we went to hell and back. I don't think we walked anywhere except for three times a day on our way back from a meal at the cookhouse. Not that we had time to eat much. I think the longest meal break we got was twenty minutes on a Sunday because the dinner was bigger. We were usually so exhausted that all we could do was pour gallons of the watery but ice-cold blackcurrant juice, which accompanied every meal, down our necks.

  Our days were spent weapon training, learning about infantry skills, staging mock section attacks, doing triple lessons of physical education, both gym work and 'battle PE' with logs and rifles, etc. The day usually began and ended with a section or platoon run of increasingly lengthening distances. Strangely, we began to 'look forward' to these, as it was the only time we set foot outside the camp and saw some of the local area. Our feet were a mass of blisters from the new boots that never seemed to be off our feet, and we were lucky to grab three or four hours of unbroken sleep a night. Even then we tossed and turned all night dreaming about the morning's room inspection, when all our kit, which we had spent hours preparing, would inevitably be slung out of the window. Alternatively, we lay waiting for about three o' clock in the morning when Squid and his mates would roll in from the nightclub and drag us out of bed for a bit of extra-curricular 'character' building. This usually meant that they wrecked our room and lockers and picked on a couple of us to stage a fight with.

  But we took it all in our stride. Those who couldn't take it were already taking the option to leave while they still could, proving that Squid's own unique methods of 'weeding out the wankers' was working rather effectively. I do remember one particular incident, which happened while we were carrying out fire picket duty. One of the lads, 'Nobby' Clarke, a naturally funny chain-smoking Geordie, tried to save himself a few quid on batteries by wiring his radio lead to one of the old bedside lights in the fire picket accommodation. He confidently flicked the switch and immediately there was an enormous bang and a flash of white light followed by every light in the camp going out. When the flames from the bedside light really began to catch we could make out Nobby, who had been thrown clean across the room, lying shaking on the floor with his face as black as coal and his hair standing up all over his head. He looked like something out of a Tom and Jerry cartoon or some old Ealing Studio comedy.

  As we attempted to fight the rapidly spreading fire, as any conscientious fire picket would, Nobby's first words were, "Ahh bollocks, man. That was a fucking good radio that. Me mam's going to kill us." Not that I wish to take anything away from Nobby's mam, but the silhouette of a far more immediate threat appeared in the doorway, in the shape of Sergeant Johns the regimental police sergeant. This man stood about four-foot-and-a-fagend tall, but he was an expert in putting you through pain like you could never imagine.

  This is what he did for the next three hours with the aid of some fire extinguishers, which we held above our heads while running on the spot with our knees up to our chests. Not to mention having to take turns in dragging an amazingly heavy old fire cart around the parade square. When he finally let us go we all felt that our lungs had fallen out, except for Nobby who was still sporting his frazzled hairdo. Nobby was amazingly fit considering he smoked about a hundred fags a day, and his first words once we were out of earshot of Johns were, "Has anyone got a tab? I could murder a smoke."

  Strangely enough, we managed to muster up enough strength between us to jump all over him in appreciation for the last three hours. I think we remain to this day the only fire picket to set fire to the fire picket hut.

  Finally, the first six weeks reached their climax with the staging of the 'beret' parade where those of us who had 'survived' proudly received our green berets worn by the light division in the presence of our families. I had lost so much weight that my own mum and dad walked straight passed me, after looking right at me, as I waited for them outside the accommodation block. The parade went well and I felt a proud lump in my throat as the commanding officer Captain Nicholson gave a speech about what we had been through and achieved over the last six weeks.

  My mum seemed to be really enjoying it when I spotted her in the crowd. My dad, however, had positioned himself next to a group of officers, and seemed more interested in getting them to notice that he was wearing his modified air force officers' greatcoat. The parade over, we went off on a well-deserved long weekend bit of leave.

  In no time at all we were back at the barracks to continue training. I had joined the bugle platoon and had to move over to their barrack room across the square from Corunna platoon. I was impressed with the flashy uniform and the fact that the bugle platoon was specially trained to fire the sustained-fire (SF) machine gun. This weapon is a general-purpose machine gun mounted on a tripod, which is capable of laying down an almost constant barrage of bullets very accurately on targets up to one thousand metres away. It was the best weapon I ever got the privilege to fire.

  It was in the bugle platoon that I met another man who I came to respect a great deal. He was the platoon commander who, like Wilson, was a warrant officer class one who had worked his way up through the ranks. His name was Max Bygraves, like the singer, and he was another hard man -with a name like that you have to be. One of the first and most important lessons he taught us was that no matter how hard you think you are there is always someone harder round the corner. He also told us that the hardest men were often the quietest, as they had nothing to prove to themselves or to anyone else.

  This was certainly true of 'Willie' Willoughby, one of the three training corporals in the bugle platoon. You couldn't meet a more placid-looking man, but when the shit hit the fan Willie would let loose like a Tasmanian devil. During one incident down town I witnessed about five or six coppers struggling to restrain him. His whole body used to tense up into one big mass of muscle, and once they had finally managed to cuff him and get him in their car he proceeded to try to strangle the driver with his handcuffs.

  On the other side of the coin we had Corporal Chris P. There wasn't anything Chris hadn't seen, done or been involved in. In later years Max's (Bygraves) philosophy was confirmed when we discovered just exactly what Chris had done, which didn't match his account. The third
member of the bugle platoon's team of corporals was a tall, skinny Geordie called, wait for it, Tom Jerry. Tom had almost completed his twenty-two years' service so, although he had a wealth of knowledge and taught us very thoroughly, he had long since lost interest in the usual army bullshit that should have accompanied his current position.

  The final member of the platoon staff certainly made up for Tom's lack of love for the army -Sergeant 'Pup' Coley from the First Battalion light infantry. Pup was certifiably insane. He was what you would call 'army barmy', and if he had served during the First World War they would have probably shot him. He would even carry out rigorous inspections of his kids' rooms and uniforms every morning before sending them to school. He truly was as mad as a March hare and was prone to 'loosing it' big time with us if we didn't do something to his exacting standards or we dropped him in the shit. He was, however, a great guy, a real character, and we all owed Pup a great deal. If we were ever in trouble Pup would bail us out every time, and back us up whether he thought we were right or wrong. He may have individually beaten us almost senseless later, but that was better than being stuck in the glasshouse or in Shrewsbury Police cells.

  It was at Shrewsbury that I got my chance to step into the ring for the first time. The army is very big on boxing. I don't know if they still do it now, but one of our first PE lessons was 'milling', which used to be like the old cockfights. Basically we would all sit around the ring and a PTI (physical training instructor) would throw two pairs of enormous boxing gloves into the group. Whichever pair of recruits got the gloves would step into the ring for a non-stop three minute round. It may not sound like much, but I am sure anyone reading this who has boxed will agree that three minutes is a long time, especially when the gloves are so big it is as if being hit with a sledgehammer after your second or third go in the ring. It was a good character-building exercise, as you had to give it your all whether you were up against your best mate or your worse enemy, otherwise one of the PTIs would step in to have a go at you.