The Loose Screw Page 5
The next time I stepped into the ring it was to participate in the intercompany boxing tournament after Chris had told me some bollocks about how he used to be the battalion boxing team coach. It turned out that he had about as much idea as I did and, to my horror, I found out that I was to fight 'Wallie' Walcott in my first bout. Wally was a north London youth champion before he joined the army. I had known this because he was in Corunna platoon with me.
But in army boxing you just have to go for it flat out (which is where I thought I would end up after a couple of rounds with Wallie). I did all right. I lost the bout, but I went the distance and only hit the canvas twice (the rest of the time I just grabbed the referee to stop me from falling). I even managed to put Wallie on his arse once due to a lucky punch. This performance earned me a lot of respect. Everyone could see that I was totally out of my league, but I was a scrapper and I gave him a good run for his money. However, he made a hell of a mess of my boyish good looks. I couldn't eat solids for about a week, but I had proved my worth. I couldn't help but curse my dad in the third round for not letting me join the gym in Dagenham -it might have been a different story then.
We remained at Shrewsbury Barracks until they were closed down in the summer of 1986 when we moved to the new barracks at Winchester. By this time the platoon had shrunk to some fifteen of us and as a result we had formed a good bond together. My old battle partner from Corunna platoon, Andy 'Frog' Thatcher, was still with us. I had picked Frog to be my battle partner during the first six weeks due to the fact that he was the only one in the platoon smaller than me and he would have been easier to carry if the need arose. He was a good lad, an excellent soldier and a loyal and trustworthy friend.
There were only four Green Jackets left at this stage -me, Pete Mills from Ribble Road near Preston, Rob Cook from Leicester and Alex 'Harry' Betts from Harrow. Millsy joined the Third Battalion and the last I heard he was growing some things that 'aren't cabbages' on a relative's farm in New Zealand. He was a proper nutcase. His claim to fame was being elected leader of the Ribble Road gang before having to resign the position to Stinky Paterson so he could join the army. The last time I saw Millsy was in Gibraltar. He had gone absent without leave but couldn't afford a flight home, so he spent about eight weeks living in the water tank housing on top of the guardroom. When you think about it, it was the perfect hiding place, but it was proving more difficult for his mates to smuggle food up to him and even more difficult for him to pop out when he fancied a pint down the town. He gave himself up eventually and was discharged from the army on psychiatric grounds. Both Cookie and Harry joined the Second Battalion with me. Both are now out of the army and married with kids of their own.
We continued the training at Winchester until the summer of 1987. During that time most of us turned eighteen and began to educate ourselves in the art of serious drinking as most young men of that age do. By this stage our training programme had relaxed slightly. We were still getting the run around but it was a far cry from the earlier Shrewsbury days.
This respite was short-lived, however, when we received a new platoon commander who was to get us through the 'final fling' -a three-week exercise on the harsh Brecon Beacons culminating in a twenty-six kilometre march in full battle kit, immediately followed by the notorious one-mile-long Brecon assault course. This new guy's name was 'Mad Paddy' Powell, a real hard-nosed bastard whose mere name struck fear into everyone that wasn't one of his very select friends.
The first time I met him I literally ran into him on the parade square. I had been out on the piss the night before and was late for the morning parade. To top that, I had had a bit of a tear up with a couple of civvies down the town the previous night and was sporting the black eyes of all black eyes. That was it -not only had I knocked 'Mad Paddy' over on his first day, he had heard all about the bit of trouble down the town and now had first-hand confirmation that it was one of 'his lads' that was involved.
The exercise went well. The Brecon weather was 'kind' to us -it only rained for two-and-a-half weeks out of the three. It was split into three phases: a live firing phase, where we carried out various different section and company attacks on every manner of ranges with live ammunition; an offensive phase, where we had to locate and destroy various enemy positions; and a defensive week, where we had to dig trenches and defend them from various attacks. My memories of this exercise are a permanent feeling of dampness and the constant smell of the eye watering, choking CS gas, which was used to test our knowledge of how to survive a chemical attack but which lingered on our clothing for the whole exercise. We used the SF machine gun throughout the three weeks and by the end of it I had become quite an expert. As well as my own rifle, kit and SF tripod (which alone weighed 30 pounds), I carried one of the younger recruit's, Carl Gustav's, anti-tank rocket launcher for about ten miles. This act finally earned me respect from Mad Paddy and allowed him to forget about our first meeting.
In the summer of 1987 we finally passed out on a blazing hot day at Sir John Moore Barracks, Winchester. I felt proud of the fact that we had gone through so much and come out the other end as men. We had seen our ranks shrink by over half their size. It had been tough. We'd had to learn about discipline and respect. In almost two years we'd had to prove that from snotty nosed kids we were now worthy of joining the ranks of what I consider to be the finest infantry regiment in the world and certainly part of the best fighting force in the world. The fact that we were standing on that square meant that we were.
However, our training wasn't over. We had to continue training constantly to enable us to maintain the standards set by those who wore the same uniform and cap badge that we proudly wore that day, and if you know your military history you will understand that this is no mean undertaking. I don't think anyone can fully appreciate the feeling you get on such an occasion unless you have experienced the sheer physical and mental pressure that you are put through during military basic training.
Some of the methods used by the training staff may have seemed harsh and you might think they were bully-boy tactics, but I think they were needed and none of those standing on that square held any resentment for any of the staff. The fact of the matter was that they knew that the business of being an infantry soldier was not an easy or nice one.
They had to turn us into men who could operate in any condition and act with a totally unbiased attitude and who ultimately would engage, fight and kill any enemy we were put up against. My whole outlook on life had changed. I had discipline, respect, pride in myself and honour. Another lesson I learned was that real men who have all of the last four qualities didn't brag about what they had seen, where they had been, what they had done or how many other blokes they had beaten up, because they didn't need to prove themselves to anyone.
I began to detest people who were full of themselves and spent all their time boosting their own egos by bragging about their various conquests, and I still do. The Prison Service is sadly full of this type of person and was another reason behind my decision to leave. My belief is that the ones who brag about their achievements to everyone they come across have actually achieved fuck all. The people who were really there don't want to talk about it and keep their memories where they belong -in their own heads.
Even though I feel it necessary to write this book at this time, I still have a lot of personal memories of my army days that I will not include in its pages for that reason. You don't need to know. There is nothing glorious about war or death or indeed beating another human being senseless with four or five of your mates while he is on the floor. Anyone who feels that there is and likes to brag to the world about their involvement is a wanker in my book. I've no time for bullies or insecure little men who talk about things they haven't a clue about in order to try to make themselves out to be something they're not. Anyway, I am drifting away from the plot again.
Standing on that parade square I felt a warm shiver passing
through my body which was a feeling of relief, extreme pride, satisfaction and self-achievement together with a feeling of trepidation about what we could expect when we joined our respective battalions.
During our two years spent at the training depot we heard some real horror stories about life in the battalion. We had even seen some real-life battalion soldiers passing through, although we were not worthy at that stage even to look at them let alone engage in conversation with them. These were men who were already at the place we were struggling to get to. They had achieved all our hopes and dreams before we even donned the khaki uniform; they had already proved their worth. We had heard stories of brutal initiation ceremonies and nightly beatings from senior soldiers, even of mental and physical torture. So you can understand why my feeling of trepidation was justified!
Once the formalities of the passing-out parade were over, we bid each other farewell and set off on a couple of weeks' leave. It was a sad time because many of us would not see each other again for some time because we were all joining different battalions throughout the light division all over the world. Many of my friends were sent to the First Battalion light infantry and sadly some of them were to have their careers tragically cut short almost two years later when the bus in which they were returning to Omagh Barracks was blown up en route by the IRA. In a strange twist of fate, however, the bombers' success was short-lived as they were engaged and killed by an SAS team operating in that area on another assignment. It doesn't bring back the young light infantrymen that lost their lives, but it did even the score slightly. No one can ever be prepared for such loss and it is always sad to lose friends in such a cowardly way, but that was the game we were in and we just had to try to play it better than anyone else in order to survive. I always have my own private moment every Remembrance Day to remember those men and other friends I have lost over the years. I will never forget them.
The leave following my passing-out parade was one of the best I was to have. Also on leave were Garry, who had himself recently joined the Second Battalion Royal Green Jackets where I was destined; Simon, who was just about to complete his Royal Electrical Mechanical Engineers course and be posted to Germany; and Steve, himself serving with the Third Battalion Royal Green Jackets in Celle, Germany. A more loyal, trustworthy and certainly 'thirsty' gang you could not find anywhere in the world. I dread to think how much lager we drank between us in that couple of weeks. It's a wonder none of us suffered any long-term liver damage. Our nightly -and daily come to think about it -haunt in those days was a small pub with a terrible reputation in Eltham called The Castle. The Castle at that time was run by a guy called Harry Starbuck a well-known 'face' in Eltham at that time, and as a result was a favourite haunt of some of the toughest men in the area.
The pub's reputation also attracted some undesirables from elsewhere either wanting to muscle in on the pub's success or looking to settle scores with some of the customers. Harry knew that if his more than capable team of bouncers were ever 'up against it' he could count on his newly trained gang of soldiers to jump in and lend a hand, which we willingly did on a number of occasions. I remember us finding it hilarious when we did get involved in such scraps. We used to spend hours afterwards laughing about it and giving Garry grief because, despite always being in the thick of it, he always managed to come out of it without a mark on his face while the rest of us would be sporting black eyes and broken noses. It was such incidents, coupled with his own vanity, that earned Garry the title of 'Pretty Boy' Thompson.
From The Castle every Friday and Saturday night we would pile into a taxi and, providing we were not already in the casualty department of Woolwich Military Hospital, we would descend on Spooks nightclub in Woolwich. This place was something else. In its historical life it had been everything from a café to a venue for underground boxing bouts. In our day it was a club that attracted all sorts of people from pimps and drug-pushers to office parties that innocently passed through the battered green double garage doors. 'Fat' Dave the doorman, who never got out of his tatty armchair for anyone, subjected everyone to an almost indecent search.
Even the Queen would have been searched while Dave remained slouched in his chair had she decided to pop in for half a lager shandy on her way home. Inside, the place was so dark that the Queen could have been dancing next to you all night and you wouldn't even have known it, and as for having a conversation, forget it. You would have to go outside or learn sign language. The only time the music would stop and the lights would go on was when a fight broke out, or someone tried to 'glass' the DJ with one of the plastic glasses that all drinks were served in. When this happened, it was like a scene from the TV show It's a Knockout. The DJ was situated in a box, which was up near the roof. It was his job to direct the bouncers to the trouble. All you could do was freeze and listen to the DJ shout, "Left a bit, right a bit, that's him". Then -whack! -the bouncers would dish out a crippling blow to the back of some bloke's head, only to hear the DJ shout, "Sorry, my mistake, wrong one. Left a bit, right a bit, that's him" -whack! This went on until they finally got the right man, but not before they had put about three or four blokes out of action for the night.
Trouble that started in Spooks inevitably spilled out onto the streets of Woolwich once the club shut. This was a dangerous time when you had to dodge running street battles being waged between various groups of men and women all of whom were pissed out of their tiny little minds. It was during one such night that I and Pretty Boy were slowly making progress down the mile-long queue into the only open kebab shop when we noticed Steve involved in a scrap on the other side of the street. Normally we would have rushed to his assistance, but to do this would have meant losing our valuable place in the queue and possibly risking the chance of not getting a kebab at all. So we decided to do the next best thing for our friend. Due to his current position, he was unlikely to finish messing around before the kebab shop shut, so we shouted over to Steve and asked if he wanted chilli sauce on his doner and told him not to worry, it would be our treat.
Like all good things, the leave was over quickly and I had to come back to earth with a bump when the day arrived for me to report to the Second Battalion, which was currently based at Battlesbury Barracks in sunny Warminster.
4
2ND BATTALLION ROYAL GREEN JACKETS
During the train journey to Warminster I experienced much the same feelings as I had had on that first journey to Shrewsbury. Once again my head was filled with thoughts, trying to imagine what lay in store for me, and once again I didn't have a clue. The arrival at Warminster Station and indeed at Battlesbury Barracks was less dramatic than the one I had experienced at Shrewsbury. A lone landrover driven by Rifleman Dave Presnall, a little, scruffy looking bloke with an unshaven face and tired, bloodshot eyes met Cookie, 'Harry' and myself. In the years that followed, Dave and I were to become good friends and enjoy many a drunken night out in Capel Court Country Club just outside Dover, which was owned by his mum and dad. But at this particular time we were obviously keeping him from more important things than picking up a couple of NIGS (new intake groups) from the station. He hardly said a word to us and when he did open his mouth he was just whining about the army. This whining was an art unique to soldiers in the battalion and one that we were to master ourselves in no time at all.
We arrived at the camp only to find the rest of the battalion on leave and only a skeleton rear party in residence guarding the barracks. In some ways this worked to our advantage as it gave us the opportunity to settle in and explore the local town for a few days before the boys got back. We were taken out by Jimmy Clarke, a little fat sergeants' mess worker, on our first night only because he was skint and was after a few free pints and not because he was feeling hospitable or anything.
Jimmy quickly toured us round the town's main four drinking holes, The Bath Arms, The Bell, The Anchor and The Volunteer (which the owner craftily renamed The Rifleman shortly af
ter our arrival). After the pubs had shut he then showed us the two Chinese takeaways, one up some stairs and the other on street level, so you had a choice of venues depending on how much lager you had drunk and whether you could safely negotiate the stairs or not. Both takeaways had their own risks, however. The upstairs one was where the two Fijian brothers, both corporals in D Company, liked to fine tune their favourite sport of surfing down the stairs on the back of the nearest 'NIG' they could find, which produced some pretty nasty carpet burns on their victim (sorry 'teammate'). The 'downstairs' Chinese was on the outskirts of Green Jacket territory. It was called the 'boxing ring' due to the shape of its waiting area and the fact that there were usually some squaddies from the school of infantry in there who would risk venturing so close to Green Jacket territory in search of a good meal. The outcome of this mix would always end up in a punch-up between the two groups of squaddies. These groups would in turn be compelled to join forces in an attempt to fight off the seven or eight 'Bruce Lee' chefs who somersaulted over the counter to prevent their place being smashed up.
A few days later the rest of the platoon returned from leave. I was accepted more or less straight away due to the fact that it was halfway through the month and I was in possession of a tin of tobacco. This was a rare item so close to pay day and so, although it cost me almost a full ounce, my fears of this initial meeting, as described earlier, were dispelled. It's strange how things work in the army, and I wondered that night what the story would have been had I decided not to buy that tin at Waterloo Station three days earlier.
The platoon was full of great characters, each one adding their own unique contributions to the way in which we lived. I could fill another book just describing them all, so I will only describe a few to give you the general picture. The first guy I met was a Geordie called Pete Carr. Pete was a lunatic in his own right; he modelled himself on Bruce Lee and worshipped the Seventies. Pete was also of Indian origin, although he was unsure of his true birthday and some years later when we were going to Canada he discovered he didn't have a passport and it took a lot of time and effort on the army's behalf to get him one. How he ever got into the British army without one is beyond me. As a result of his wayward personality, Pete looked like an Indian porn star from China whenever he got dressed up for a night on the town.