The Loose Screw (6 page)

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 after 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.

Following closely behind Pete was his loyal but completely different friend 'Mac' McLeod. Mac was the sensible one; well at least he was the only one in the platoon still to have money left after the first weekend of the month. He was a fitness fanatic and spent hours in the gym and out running. He was also an excellent boxer, with many trophies under his belt including battalion champion, which was an achievement in itself considering the competition you get in a Green Jacket battalion. Yet to look at Mac he seemed the most unlikely boxing champion ever. But another lesson I had learned was never to judge a book by its cover and never underestimate anyone.

Mac once had a run-in with a giant of a man from the REME (Royal Electrical Mechanical Engineers) when he fell into Mac pissed down the town and started blaming Mac for spilling his drink. Ever calm, Mac suggested they didn't fight in the bar and get nicked by the army, but rather settled it in the ring back at the camp. That was it, the gauntlet had been thrown, and the REME lads were convinced their man would win hands down due to his size. I did warn them to go to the library and read about David and Goliath, but they just weren't having it. Anyway, the day of the bout arrived and, needless to say, Mac was all over the fat git, who didn't even get the chance to land one punch. Eventually his mates threw in the towel after Mac had made a bit of a mess of him, but once again another man had stood his ground and earned the respect of someone who was all set to kick the living daylights out of him. A man who had spent a week bragging to all and sundry about what he was going to do to this 'little prick' had to eat a bit of humble pie, when the swelling went down that is!

Then there was Kia Morgan, a wiry man from Dartford who had a mass of perfectly combed black hair and matching moustache. Kia, like most of us, did like a drink and spent most of his time pissed and slurring out his own personal views on life and the army. He was, however, a very good soldier who had the utmost pride in his regiment and staunch loyalty to his friends. You could always rely on Kia to help out if you ever got into any bother.

Finally I must introduce you to Paul 'Fred' (due to his uncanny resemblance to Fred Flintstone) Symcox, the platoon's secret weapon. What Fred seemed to lack in common sense he more than made up for in sheer size and strength. In fact Fred's appearance and apparently stupid nature hid a man who was actually very clever and had more 'O' and 'A' levels than the rest of the platoon put together. Despite being prone to the odd temper tantrum, when it was best to stay well clear, Fred, like the rest of us, was extremely loyal. He proved this on a number of occasions by bailing us out of many a scrape. I remember one night we were out and Fred was being his usual loud self -this was just Fred's normal volume but people who didn't know him would often take him the wrong way. Anyway, Fred went to the toilet and Kia and I noticed four guys who had been staring at our group all night follow him in. We thought it was a bit strange that they should all want to 'go' at the same time as Fred and decided that as Fred had had about twenty pints of bitter we should go and see if he was all right. We entered the toilets almost immediately after the four guys, but realized that Fred was in no need of assistance when we saw three of them out cold on the floor and the fourth going a strange shade of blue whilst being held in one of Fred's trademark bear hugs. We apologized to Fred for our lack of faith in him and left him to enjoy himself and finish his piss.