RESOLUTION
Around this time I decided a career in the Army wasn’t for me. I’d learned an awful lot about Police work. Some of it was learning from mistakes but most of it was the competition between the other Police enthusiasts, a few of which were ex-early day civvy policemen themselves. Like Para’s and Commandos joining the French Foreign Legion, the Royal Military Police had a similar attraction for some Police Officers.
The essential bit of kit for the Military Police enthusiast was Moriarty’s Police Law. A thick blue book that contained everything a police officer should know about the law. It was our Bible. I read it most days. If there was any dispute regarding the law, it wasn’t pistols at dawn or a ‘straightener’ on the lawn, it was ‘blue books’ across a table.
I’d been accepted by Merseyside Police and they’d given me a date to join. Originally, when I signed on in the Army it had been for 3 years but when I got married I fell for the lure of the extra £5 a week (I doubt if it had been more) and changed my engagement to 9 years in total. Now, 3 years on I had to pay the Army a tidy sum to terminate my contract.
So I paid my money and they’d cashed the cheque and, several months later, I was still there. The Army itself is not really arsed if you want to leave but some individuals seem to take it as a personal insult and so began a period where I was presented with a series of obstacles to a happy parting.
I had a quarter to handover, which as every married soldier knows is a bit of a task. It has to be immaculate. It can take quite a while to fulfil the expectations even if you kept it tidy in the first place. The Unit hierarchy knew this. They were all well practiced in it themselves.
Coming back from an exercise, a group of us were immediately sent to Dortmund to fill in, doing their Police duties, whilst they went out and hid in the bushes somewhere in greater West Germany. We were definitely told by the Razman (it was on the daily detail) that we were to stay there for the duration doing 24 on, 24 off.
So, not much would be done in my quarter and I had to hand it over when I got back (there were some paint jobs to be done, floors to scrub, items to be exchanged at the ‘Families Store’). I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t pleased, some of the others had issues as well so we complained, so much so that the Razman backed down and declared we could come back during our 24 hours off. He said we'd misunderstood the daily detail and it hadn't said what we thought. We couldn't check because it had gone missing.
This was followed up with strategically placing me on duties when he was aware I'd made arrangements to have my bulk purchases transported to Sennelager where a friend of my father, Johnny Patterson, who was the Officer in charge of weapons training for BAOR, had facilities where they could be stored. A TA Transport unit, from Bootle, Merseyside, would pick them up for me, when they’d finished their BAOR exercise (Dad was the range Superintendent at Altcar Ranges so had good contacts with all the local military units).
If it hadn’t been for having a damned decent Orderly Sergeant (probably ‘Savage’ or someone of a similar nature) who let me and Lcpl Dale Hunter bugger off with my gear and the van I’d hired specially for the task, I would have been knackered. I will always remember the look on Dale’s face when, after we’d saluted, ‘Johnny Pat’ greeted me like a long lost son. We both had tea and cakes in his married quarter.
I spent a fair bit of time at 21/4 getting it ready for handover. General cleaning and some paint jobs. There were a few dirty marks on the walls in the living room and my daughter’s bedroom. I started in the front room and bought a huge bucket of white emulsion and a big tube of blue stuff to colour it. That’s the way it was done on the Continent. I emptied some of the contents into a smaller container, added the colourant, carefully blending it in and attacked the walls with a roller and a 6 inch brush. I managed all four walls in one night but it’d been hard work. The next night I came back to find not one wall was the same as the other and one even had three different shades on it. I hadn’t realised I should have mixed the colour in the big bucket first. Doh!
The day I was to hand it over, I was detailed, at the last minute, to take a Land Rover and trailer to nearby Portsmouth Barracks for the trailer to be given a major service. The timings clashed. I reminded the Razman I had to be at my quarter but was left in no doubt, I was to ensure I was at the other Barracks for 11 am or I would be on a charge and tapping the boards in front of the OC. He was quite clear about that; there was no confusion. It gave me just 30 minutes to resolve any issues at the flat and to sign it over.
When I got to Nerzweg the process was in full swing. They’d turned up early with another set of keys. The SSgt from 8 Regt RCT, was surprised to see me. Standing in the living room, I watched the men in brown coats walk out with two mattresses still in their covers. They’d never been used, my daughter was only two and had been sleeping in the massive cot we had. I asked the Staffy why they were taking them and he assured me they were just being taken to have the plastic wiped down, not to worry, it was standard practice. Some other stuff was removed, amongst which were the two bedside tables, one of which had cigarette burns on it, the other pristine. The wife didn’t smoke and I didn’t smoke in bed. The burns were on the table when I was given the flat. However, I wasn’t present when it was handed over to me. That was all sorted between my Unit and someone from 8 Regt. I'd been in the UK, arranging to bring my wife and child back. It became clear later, I’d been well and truly scammed.
Time was running on and I explained my predicament to the nice SSgt. He seemed sympathetic and suggested I just sign the handover papers and get on with the day and he’d make sure everything was ok.
I can hear ‘old arses’ screaming “fool” (and that’s the polite version) but, although I thought I was ‘grown up’, I was only 21 years old and quite obviously still a naive twonk.
Much later, when I was safely ensconced in my civvy police training, I received a bill for over £100 for the mattresses (claimed stained but never unwrapped) the two bedside cabinets, all the cutlery (which had been in the drawer when my wife and I first walked in) and various other items, some of which I never even knew I was supposed to have. A lot of money in those days; my yearly wages were around £2,500. Coming from BAOR with its LOA, I’d taken a huge pay cut.
The next problem was ... I was still there. In modern parlance I think it’s fair to say ‘my head was cabbaged’. I phoned my dad, one night, and declared if he didn’t do something, I was going to punch the RSM at precisely 8.30 the next morning, when he stepped out to take the parade. I then went to the Mess and got rabidly pissed.
The following morning, I stood outside his office with a feeling of doom in my heart. I was really going to jail this time and being an MP, a monkey as the rest of the Army called us, I was fairly certain it wouldn’t be pleasant.
He wasn’t in his office but came strolling down the corridor and when he saw me he gave me a big friendly smile. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He sucked on his pipe and happily told me I should: “just pop over and see the 2i/c, he’s got some good news for you.” So I did.
My dad had rung the 2 i/c, late the previous night, having done his homework, and spoke to him as one old Sergeant Major to another. Apparently, Dad rounded the call off with a brief mention of the newspapers should positive action not be forthcoming (there’d been some negative stuff in them around that time, regarding the Military Police and journalistic fervour had been roused). The 2i/c, an RMP legend, wasn’t pleased.
I would say on a scale of one to enraged he was livid. He called me some unpleasant names and for some reason reminded me of the Mess book debacle when, as the Barman handing over, I’d been stiffed over beer barrels and what was and wasn’t counted as empty. Half full being classed as ‘full’ on takeover suddenly became the opposite when leaving, despite the same senior rank overseeing things both times. If I hadn’t been selling big hot dogs in buns I’d have been the only Mess barman who’d failed to make a profit.
Well, I hadn’t been happy and wrote something churlish about how the Corps tune should be changed to the O’Jays ‘The Backstabbers’. The next guy, who took over from me, I’d considered a friend but it hadn’t stopped him pointing the entry out to the 2i/c. Somewhat ironic, I thought.
His annoyance vented, I was told I was leaving in three days and to get my arse into gear. I barely had time to kiss everyone goodbye. I left Münster early that Friday morning.
Andy, the guy who’d brought me there, took me back out. It could be viewed as slightly poignant but I think he just wanted to make sure I’d really left.
I’ve no recollection exactly how I got there but I arrived at Roussillon barracks around 3.30 the same afternoon to find almost everyone had gone home in celebration of a thing called POETS day (Piss Of Early Tomorrow’s Saturday).
I was met in the Admin block by a Corporal whose name I can’t recall but wish I could. He was a black lad who apologised and told me nothing could be done until the following Monday. I did the only thing I could do. I whinged liked a good ‘un and told him if I didn’t get to the Merseyside Police Training Centre on the following Monday, I would be unemployed and this would cause untold hardship to my family.
I'd found a sympathetic ear. He took my details (my papers from the Chief Clerk in Münster hadn’t arrived as promised; I never got my birth and marriage certificates back) and he returned a while later with a travel warrant to Liverpool and a £10 advance on my pay (I was skint, my last bit of cash went on the taxi from the train station and the Chief Clerk had assured me I would receive all my pay owing when I got there). Finally, I could go home and fulfil my appointment with destiny.
The Corporal said he’d ensure the necessary was completed in my absence on Monday. We shook hands and I thanked him until he looked embarrassed. I can be quite pathetic when I want to be.
So! The day I officially left the Army I became a probationer Police Constable when I humped two large suitcases into Mather Avenue, Liverpool, to discover, once again, I hadn’t read the joining instructions properly. The first week wasn’t residential.
I asked the ‘Sarge’ if it would be possible to leave my cases somewhere as I couldn’t face humping them back home. He looked at me quizzically. “Where do you live?”
Well, there was a question. I lived, now, having bought a house, in Waterloo, a suburb of Liverpool. Either the Sgt had never heard of it or my lack of a scouse accent threw him. He gave me a whole room to myself. I dumped the bags and later the same day saw him before I left, just to declare I would be back in the morning. He gave me a worried look. “Are you sure you’ll be able to get back in time?” “Oh, yes,” I cheerily declared. “I’ll get the sixty one and walk down.”
It was two days later I was told to remove my bags and stop pissing about. He’d thought I lived in Waterloo, London.