REALISATION
There I was lying on my pit. One bed in a room big enough for at least three. Just me, a half read book, a half drunk bottle of Glayva, the silence and the smell of the drains in the showers opposite. I decided I needed some sounds.
I remembered Marshall, from training. A blond haired lad with slightly prominent teeth and a friendly disposition. When I first arrived he had a four man room to himself which contained one bed with matching cupboard etc. Two large speakers flanked a flashy music centre; green and red lights danced wildly in the dark.
It turned out he’d been at Depot for 18 months and never got round to passing out of basic military training. He’d got close a few times but kept getting injuries, the odd broken arm or leg, and once even managed to get some exotic disease that saw him quarantined. He’d become a bit of a fixture, apparently. At one point they’d made him the barracks driver, tasked to carry out all manner of things too tedious for others to do. He even had sole use of an Army box van. He told me it was great, in the summer, because he would tootle down to Bognor Regis, Worthing or Brighton for the day and do some sunbathing. It had been going really well, he said, but then some nosey newly posted boss had noticed him and he was now on his last chance.
I asked him if we all got rooms like his. Sadly, he told me we didn’t and we would all be moving to new accommodation soon where life would become more hectic. So, for the next three days, I and the other recruits lay in our beds, of a night, listening to him play the only album he seemed to have: Tubular Bells.
Basic training. I’d never ached so much and so comprehensively before or since. There were days when we negotiated the stairs to go on parade with tears in our eyes, the pain was so great. Ok, I’d been a couch potato but I was, at least, managing not to be last and somehow had become the ‘grey man’ before I even knew what that meant.
Somewhere in a pile of old wall trophies, taken from the gym in Chichester following the barracks closure a few years back, lies one which bears multiple small shields, amongst which is the one dedicated to my being the most physically improved recruit in Squad 7502.
I’m fairly certain this achievement was mainly due to someone miscounting my pulse recovery rate which appeared phenomenal resulting in my only having to complete ridiculously low repetitions of various physical activities: push ups, chins, squat thrusts etc. What could I do? Of course, I pushed the boat out and did 5 of each which, on the final results board, made me look like Daley Thompson.
We marched until our legs ached. We ran until our legs and lungs ached. We crawled through mud and bushes until our knees and elbows ached and dived over the assault course until anything that didn’t ache was scratched and torn. Then we did it all over again. And when we were finished for the day sometimes Corporals we hadn’t seen before invented an assault course competition between us and another squad of gullible idiots where the prize was a crate of beer. What they failed to tell us was the winning Corporal got the beer, not us.
Somehow, Marshall made it through this time but not before he managed to injure his leg playing in a basketball game organised by SSgt Conoboy, who’d thought we could do with a pleasant distraction.
On the day, we marched up and down in our khaki No2 dress uniforms, white belts, service dress (SD) caps, boots gleaming, pride puffing out our chests. Marshall, wearing the same, stood on crutches on the sideline, one foot in a shiny boot and the other in a shiny plaster cast. He made it out of basic but didn’t make it all the way and the last I knew of him he’d transferred, still smiling, to the Veterinary Corps.
Neither I nor my new mate, Alan Wilson, were ever back squadded at Depot and we were the only two DEs to survive Squad 7502. You would never have placed a bet on that but nevertheless, somehow, we did it. I knew Alan as ‘Jock’ because I didn’t have enough experience to realise I should have called him ‘Tug’. To be honest, I’m not sure he knew either because he never said anything! He later went on to be a leading light in Close Protection.
Back in my pit I stared at the ceiling. Decision made. It was the way forward. I would nip down the NAAFI at Gremmendorf and get myself some sounds and something to play them on. Apparently, according to the blokes everything in the NAAFI was dirt cheap. They were practically giving it away.
On arrival, I discovered it was not only adolescent boys that distorted the truth and exaggerated. Evidently, I had a warped idea of the price of dirt. Nevertheless, I managed to buy a silver, slimline music centre and one album before the money ran out. The album? Elton John’s ‘Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy’ the title track of which I played so many times that someone suggested a whip round to buy me another album. I tactfully declined the offer and bought Derek and the Dominoes ‘Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs’ the following payday.
I only spent about 6 months living in the single men’s accommodation but it became apparent, even to me, that although being single has its advantages, being so close to hand had its disadvantages; stand in duties for a Pad (married soldier) or a special duty somewhere. You were too easy to find if you didn’t have a car. There was a tendency when someone wanted or needed to swap duties, for a family event for instance, for the single accommodation to be seen as an easy hunting ground. Which, to be honest, it generally was, provided you got there early enough. As someone said, “There’s not much you can do. It’s a Pads’ Army.”
Speaking of cars, a new arrival who became a good friend of mine, and still is to this day, bought one. He was really pleased he’d got a bargain and showed it off, proudly and boastfully. It was a Lada, in a shade of maroon specially formulated by the Russians to make rust invisible and after three days of driving it up and down the cobblestones, the length and back in the barracks, whilst he waited for his British Forces driving licence, the passenger door fell off. The previous owner had been trying to offload it onto someone for months.
I was given a married quarter in Nerzweg, just across the rail track from the camp. Flat 4, 21 Nerzweg to be exact. A tidy little thing, from the kitchen window there was a nice view of the seagulls on the Stadt rubbish tip and, particularly in the summer, an enhanced aerial 'flavour' to enjoy. Initially, moneywise, things were tight. I’m not sure why, probably some cock-up with my pay rates or local overseas allowance (LOA).
A magical thing the LOA. Providing a lot more than your actual pay, it was designed to offset the local cost of living and once it had kicked in, and I’d gained a promotion, we could afford the things that most squaddies had: the Mensing pictures, a schrank, a set of Caxton encyclopaedias, our own fancy chairs and a boss top of the range Technics deck, amplifier and speakers. Obviously, we couldn’t afford a top of the range camper van or BMW and a caravan because you had to be in one of those Regiments spending its life in West Germany: Light Air Defence or some Recce Unit, I think. Their only nuisance was being posted, every now and then, from one end of BAOR to the other.
Meanwhile, before the heydays, we were surviving the last week of each month on potato soup from the local Spar. This was basically liquid mashed potato. I was disappointed the first time because I couldn’t find the corn kernel that featured heavily at the centre of the picture on the tin. I wasn’t stupid. I didn’t expect to get the sprig of green stuff pictured as well. What am I? An idiot? The corn kernel was possible but I never found it. Damn those marketing executives.
By now, I’d well met the CSM, Harry Whitehurst, a scary man with a scar, who did a magnificent job of hiding his inner tenderness but I found, in due course, he was a fair man.
One of my first meetings started well but deteriorated somewhat. I was to be introduced to the OC, Captain John Smith, and given a welcome pep talk. Standing outside his office the CSM quickly informed me how this was to be done. Unfortunately, I was still in my ‘head full of seagulls phase’ and didn’t quite catch what he said. Still, I was a trained soldier, what could go wrong?
He opened the door and I marched in, came to a halt and saluted. It was going swell. Then the CSM informed me, in a shouty manner, that he hadn’t actually told me to enter and I should march back out. This is where it fell apart. I swung up another salute and promptly marched out backwards, as if someone had reversed the film. Judging by the look on his face, the OC had never seen this particular drill movement before and the CSM was unable to explain its origins because of the fit he appeared to be having. I think he recognised he was dealing with a simpleton and had an inner struggle going on. It was better second time around.
The ‘Stickman’ was called the ‘Stickman’ because of the pace stick ranks of his seniority would carry. Without putting too much effort in, he could cause consternation in my colleagues which sometimes bordered on hysteria. Despite the fact many of them had 12 or more years service it didn’t seem to be of much help. The following might give you a flavour of what I mean.
When not actually on police duties or enjoying a sparse day off we were permanently drawn to ‘availables’. These were days where we would have to do all the many routine admin tasks, sometimes twice or more depending on who the senior rank in charge was. The basic aim of this game was not to leave you with any time to think of things like days off or holidays. Thinking of things like that was considered bad for morale.
When there was something to be done it generally got done but there was no point in finishing it in a timely fashion because it wouldn’t get you home earlier and would probably get you the job that everyone had been avoiding for months.
On the days when our only real purpose in being on ‘available’ duty was to stop us being somewhere else we would march over to the Motor Transport (MT) garages and one of the senior Cpls would post a 'guard', usually a VT lance jack or a Class 2 Cpl because recent events had taught them that sprogs like me and the other bloke weren’t up to the job. The object was, apparently, to make it to Naafi break without doing a tap. Everyone sat around swinging the light and smoking (I just smoked, having no light to swing).
Mild discomfort followed any sighting of the Stickman, usually seen walking from the Duty Room to the HQ/SIB Block, but panic set in if he suddenly veered off and approached the MT. In retrospect it was amusing to see grown ‘Senior Cpls’ tussling one another for possession of a broom or spanner etc (usually the one someone had taken off me or the other sprog). Some would dash out, hoping to make the sanctuary of one of the other garages, where they tried to feign useful employment, but Harry was much too clever for that. If you weren't actually doing something constructive you were doomed. Standing to attention with your mouth open and randomly flapping about was not a good idea either, as I found out. It took me a while to ‘switch on’ but eventually I did. Generally though, as a detachment, things were fairly mellow.
Harry, occasionally, would show his inner cuddliness by sternly ordering someone into his office and questioning them as to whether they liked tomatoes. If they hinted they did they were allowed to take a bagful from the boxes that would appear behind his door from time to time. Nobody ever said they didn’t like tomatoes so we never did find out what the alternative was. It was too risky.
Once, I fucked up a drink driving case. Well, it wasn’t so much my fault as the Army doctor who, for some reason, wrote the suspect’s details on one sample of blood and his last patient’s name on the other. Either way, I had to offer the soldier his choice and he, it turned out, got the one with his details on it. I got the booby prize. If it had happened the other way round it would have made no difference in the hands of a half decent brief but we possibly might have just ‘got away’ with it. I hadn’t been watching and it cost me the job. I only discovered the mistake when I took the Police sample to be analysed. As a result, the Stickman called me into his office in his usual gruff manner declaring he wanted to speak to me about the ‘job you cocked up’. I feared the worse. Once out of earshot of the others, he told me he’d arranged for me to go on a drink drive course in Osnabruck and, with a smile, declared, “I know it wasn’t entirely your fault and, hopefully, you won’t fuck up again.”
From time to time, war kit would be packed in trailers in preparation for a thing called Active Edge (also known by some as Quick Train). The idea of this was to test our readiness for war and see how long it took us to be ready for deployment. It was meant to be a surprise but I don’t ever recall it working. We always seemed to know it was coming and would be told to pack everything in advance. The only surprise would be ‘will it be tonight or tomorrow night’.
For me, the most annoying part of this process was having to follow the rigid list issued by the SSgt’s with regard to what kit you packed in your 58 pattern webbing (what they refer to these days as a modular based personal equipment system). With the small back pack removed what was left was called CEFO (Combat Equipment Fighting Order). The kidney pouches contents I found particularly interesting because it usually consisted of stuff like two pairs of spare underpants (Army speak- shreddies), a PT vest, kiwi polish and Army issue brushes the size of a small boat. I just couldn’t see myself bothering to change my shreddies, wanting to do star jumps or polishing my boots under enemy fire. A yellow squeaky duck and a small cuddly toy I’d have found more useful, at least I’d have been able to make myself laugh and cuddle a loved one before snuffing it. Perhaps if they’d renamed it CEHO, Combat Equipment Holiday Order, I might have seen the point. I think BAOR measured its ‘life expectancy’ against the Russian hordes in days. I measured mine in minutes. Ten to be exact, maybe fifteen if I was lucky.
Periodically, an Active Edge would result in us actually being deployed out into ‘the field’. Our particular ‘field’ was always a place called ‘Potenhausen’ wood which we would have to approach in the dark, lights off, watching the dim little convoy light that shone onto the white painted rear axle of the vehicle in front. To this day, I’ve no idea where the hell this wood is. I only ever went there in the dark and left it in daylight when my interest lay mainly in sleep.
All too soon our existence as a cosy little detachment of 112 Provost Company came to an end and we confounded Russian intelligence by becoming the headquarters of 113 Provost Company.The Stickman had retired, shortly before, becoming a families officer looking after the welfare of soldiers’ families in another garrison somewhere. Although we lost him, we gained a pocket sized Major as the OC, a Captain as 2i/c, who was a growing legend in the Corps (a parachutist reputed to have more metal in his body than Barry Sheene), and an RSM. Oh, and a load of people I didn’t know. During the same period new recruits came in as replacements for people posted out. For the main part they were young direct entries. It was nice to feel like an ‘old arse’ but life carried on much as normal, only there was shouting now and a huge increase in the ‘let’s bugger them about’ factor.
During this time, we had a nice ‘twinning’ ceremony with the local Bundeswehr Feldjäger (German Military Police) where we out-marched them in good style. Our marching wasn’t better, it was just the British military stride must be a bit longer than the German one because they had to keep breaking into a trot to keep up with us. After speeches by the bigwigs, the riff raff retired to the Cpl’s Mess where we all got pissed. I came away with a full Feldjäger uniform and it only cost me 400 fags (a bargain, I thought).
Two days later, a procession of embarrassed German MPs came round and asked for their kit back. Apparently, their Bosses were threatening them all with a board tapping session if they failed. For the price we paid from the Naafi, we did the exchange; they got to keep their clothes and some cut price booze and fags and we got our money back. Everyone was happy. I’ve no idea what I thought I was going to do with that uniform. It’s not as if I could wear it anywhere.
Around the same time, we had a visit from Major General Frank Kitson, author of ‘Gangs and Counter gangs’, a book about the Mau Mau insurrection in Kenya and one I had read with great interest. As usual on these occasions, we had to turn out with all sorts of kit, all spruced up, so he could ask us questions and see if he liked the ‘cut of our jibs’.
With two other Cpls, I stood trying to feign a workable knowledge of the No 2 (single burner) and No3 (double burners) portable cooking stoves (portable if you had a Land Rover). After us, his next port of call was the Sgt’s Mess for lunchtime drinkies and nibbles. Anyway, it was going swell until he asked us to fire up the No 3.
A rightly nervous RSM quickly stepped in with a, “It’ll take them a little while, Sir, because they’ll need to fill them up with fuel and we’ve got to move onto the Mess.” He nodded agreement, sagely, and to our disappointment replied, “Well, you do that and I’ll watch you from that window, over there, in the Mess.” He smiled. He looked so keen on the idea we didn’t like to refuse.
As far as I can remember, these type of burners used petrol but you had to pre-warm the bits where the flames eventually came out with some of the same fuel or kerosene in order to turn the main fuel into a vapour. Well, I’m not sure what the hell we did but it wasn’t working. In desperation we filled the pre-warming containers to the top, lit them and pumped the thing like billy oh, forgetting to close off the feeds. The result was a sheet of flame 6 feet high and three dancing MPs, beating each other with their berets, after which we stood there, singed, watching until the pressure and the flames died down. I was told, Kitson commented, “Very amusing” and returned to the drinks party.
Not long after the new company moved in, the RSM, a rank known in Guards units as God but who we just called ‘the Razman’, spotted a huge flaw in my personal make up; a tendency to be late. I’m being kind to myself using the word tendency because it makes it sound as if now and then I could be late whereas the truth is that now and then I could be on time. Once, I was even early. Why he put up with this for so long, I’ve no idea? Maybe he had more important people on his target list. I suspect I may be the only person in the Military Police, if not the Army, who earned his promotion to Corporal by simply being on time for one whole week.
The truth of the matter is, in the MPs, after being a Lcpl for a year, you’re eligible for promotion to class 2 Cpl. The word to concentrate on here is ‘eligible’. It wasn’t a certainty and both the Razman and I knew he could delay it for many months, if he so wished. He approached me one day, told me his thoughts and declared that if I was early on parade for seven days in a row he’d let me be promoted. I didn’t let him down.
Several days after I got my second stripe up, I wandered in to work and found the parade in full swing. There he was, brazenly inspecting the day shift. I could see it through the slatted fence. Immediately, I swung round and ran to the fence alongside the rear of the duty block, slung my brief case over and followed it. Entering through the kitchen and scuttling past the startled cooks, I managed to dump my brief case and cap in the Duty Room so it looked as if I’d been there earlier then disappeared into the toilets to re-emerge spraying air freshener back through the door and holding my stomach just as he re-entered the building,. He approached me several times that day to ask if I was feeling any better.
As a kid, I’d been an avid fan of the comic character ‘Rodger the Dodger’ and had a wide selection of excuses and ruses available to me. Every now and then, I found it useful to throw in the truth, well, part of it at least, as it gave the honesty of my responses in the face of doubt more credence. One day, I decided such an event was called for but my timing was out and, patience exhausted, he put me on a charge. I was rightly found guilty and fined something like £75, a fairly hefty sum in those days, but even then I realised I’d led a somewhat charmed life and spread out over my previous infractions and escapes the fine was almost peanuts.
Police work: This consisted mainly of dealing with traffic accidents, assaults, drunks, thefts and taking reports of burglaries concerning the cellar storage in the married quarter areas. I don’t recall dealing with many thefts from various units’ barrack rooms. They seemed to want to keep that sort of thing to themselves. I think it was because once the RMP went in the ‘management’ had no real control over what they would become interested in; best not stir the still waters.
If an incident was serious, such as murder, rape, robbery, grievous bodily harm etc, then the Special Investigation Branch (SIB), the Army’s detectives, dealt with it. Some RMP seem to have had a tenuous relationship with SIB members but maybe it’s just a case of ‘who was where and when’. I never had an issue and aspired to be a member of ‘the Branch’. It was only years later that I managed it, as a member of the TA’s 83 Section. The regular Army always used to look down on the TA. It was the same in SIB. The funny thing was that most of 83 Sect were ex RMP or SIB anyway.
A couple of jobs I dealt with come to mind. One concerned a report one night that a group of off duty soldiers had stolen two bikes. Turned out the bikes had been padlocked but not around a lamp post, no that would have been too sensible, but around a post from which they could be easily lifted off. Much too enticing for a drunken squaddie who basically looks at it as if you’ve demanded he steal it. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out where you might find the offenders so we bimbled off towards Buller Barracks, as a first port of call. Just before we got to the gates we saw six of them enter. We slammed on the brakes and did a quick search of the undergrowth and there we found the two bikes, still chained together. Unrideable, they’d been carried back to the camp. They knew they wouldn’t get in with them so dumped them. What was the point, you might say? Exactly.
We nipped in to see the Guard Commander, explained the situation as the ‘lads’ were booking in. “Two of them do?” he asked. We nodded. He then took two of them hostage and locked them up for the night. Exactly what for, I still don’t know, probably for being ‘drunk’. We were happy, justice served and no more paperwork.
On another occasion, around the area of the two most popular squaddie bars (the Manhattan 77 and the MSC) whilst searching for the soldiers responsible for a fight, we came across a little guy about to enter the MSC. We checked him out and saw he had grazes on his knuckles. I asked him how he’d come by them and he replied, in an Edinburgh accent, “Somebody tapped me on the shoulder, so ah hit him.” I pointed out the person may have just been about to ask for the time. He wobbled to and fro then announced. “Yer dinnae de that tae a Royal Scot.” We talked a bit more and he was quiet amusing. My partner and I decided we’d just give him a lift back to the barracks; we didn’t have a complainant for any assault so it was either lock him up for being drunk or dispense with the paperwork.
He had a pair of white pants on and a check shirt. We had an airportable half ton Land Rover with an oil spillage between the seats in the back and knowledge of a ramp at a roadworks en route.
We dropped him off about 250 metres from the camp gate and sat, in the little gravel lay-by on the bend, watching him stagger towards Oxford Bks, the back of his pants covered in oil from where he’d somersaulted off his seat when we hit the roadworks at speed. He’d been very grateful to us for not locking him up and insisted on coming to both windows to shake our hands. We now felt bad about ruining his trousers and were concerned that he didn’t stagger into the road on the way ‘home’. At this particular point the main road continued on with a slip road on the right which led into the camp. Additionally, to the right of the slip road was a rough grassed area then the barrack wall.
Although he looked as if he might (quite a few times), he never actually stumbled into the main road, much preferring to bounce off the barrack wall and scramble through the undergrowth. As he was halfway there we saw the duty gate guard in the floodlights, peering down the road at him. After a short while the guard disappeared but then returned with another uniformed soldier. When our friend reached them, it became obvious he was going to spend the night in the cells. I don’t think our briefly turning on the blue light helped him any.
Most squaddies aren’t criminal masterminds but that doesn’t mean that they don’t sometimes get the better of you.
Having become competent at policework I badgered the Police Office Sgt, Robbie Kemp, until he and the RSM got fed up and let me join the Unit Investigation Element (UIE). I’d meet Robbie again, when he was a regular Captain posted to oversee my TA Unit, 116. The Police Office was where the report files were vetted and checked. The UIE, however, was a select band of three or four Cpls whose job it was to investigate the ‘not so complicated that the SIB had to deal but a bit too time consuming for the guys on shift’ type jobs. Whoopee and I got to work in civvies. We were a mini SIB (or so I thought). It didn’t last long. I might be the only MP to have been ‘sacked’. The 2i/c didn’t say he was returning me to shifts or use any other similar words. He just said, “You’re sacked!”
The job that brought about my downfall was the fault of the CO of one of the units, I’m not sure which, perhaps the Irish or the Scots Guards, it matters not. If he hadn’t reported that his car had been stolen then returned I might have lasted a bit longer.
My investigations showed that his private car had been removed from his drive way, one evening whilst he and his wife were attending a Mess function, then, before they returned, it was put back. The tyre tracks in the snow were the first clue and the extra 50 kms on his mileage, the second. His only set of keys were on a hook in the house. There was no evidence of a break in and the only person who had been at home had been his batman, who claimed to have sat in the cellar all night polishing the CO’s boots. Who would you suspect? Exactly.
I had him in and he wasn’t having it. The second time he coughed he’d given the keys to someone but refused to say who. He claimed it had just been a jape to confound the CO. I was sure I was close to a full disclosure so had him come back into the Duty Room for a third and final interview. I was right. It was the final interview.
The little git didn’t tell me he was supposed to be waiting on at an Officer’s mess function that evening until we received a phone call demanding I hand him back. Apparently, his being there was pivotal, I’ve no idea why because he didn’t look that impressive to me. The CO complained about me, withdrew the complaint about his car and I got the sack. Well, it was good while it lasted.
Back in uniform, I dealt with my ‘last big case’. Again a vehicle was involved. This time it was definitely the Irish Guards.
I was sent, one night, to investigate a call from the German Civil Police (GCP) to the effect that a British military vehicle had been involved in a traffic accident (TA) with a German registered car, about a mile down the road from Buller Bks.
The TA was boxed off pretty quick. The German had got off lightly considering he’d been hit by a Land Rover (L/R), an offside to offside glancing blow, and although the Brits hadn’t stopped he had taken the registration number. First port of call, the nearest camp.
I don’t know why but the Irish Guards’ gate wasn’t being used for vehicles that night but the Scots Guards gate was. Both Units shared an old Luftwaffe airfield, with 2nd Royal Tank Regiment (2RTR) sitting in between them. I can’t remember how but 2RTR’s unit lines weren’t accessible to either of the Guards units. So, through the Jocks was how I, and any other Guards traffic, had to come and go.
At the Scots Guards, I discussed the access situation with the bloke on the gate. He checked the log and discovered that only two Irish Guards’ vehicles had been in and out that night. The L/R I had the number of was one of them. Casually, he mentioned it had some minor damage to the front offside bumper, nothing drastic, but he’d commented on it and the driver told him it was old damage and had already been reported. The other vehicle I later found out was the duty driver nipping out to get the Guard some bratwurst and chips.
At the Irish Guards Guardroom I found a picket patrol had just discovered a window in the Motor Transport office had been smashed. I went round there with the bloke and the Picket Sgt.
In best Sherlock Holmes fashion I studied the broken, unlatched window, from several angles, shone a torch in and noted that, other than a set of keys lying on the nearby desk, everything looked ok. When we accessed the office the keys on the desk belonged to the offending L/R. Off we went to the garages and there it was, complete with damage as noted by the Scots gate guard.
Now, this is where the senior ranks knowledge of the troops comes in handy. The Picket Sgt told me who he reckoned it would have been, based on their past exploits and their shady behaviour when he’d seen them earlier on in the Naafi. He gave me a list of five names.
Four of them were our offenders. When the bar had closed they’d wanted to continue drinking so had taken the L/R and nipped to a bar a couple of miles down the road, had a few more beers and bought some to bring back.
The fifth guy, I was told later, hadn’t got off scot free. Although not involved in the vehicle taking he’d been told by the RSM there would be consequences should he be caught drinking again. The Picket Sgt seeing him in the Naafi was good enough evidence as far as the RSM was concerned so he took his jumper off, rolled up his sleeves and said, “My punishment or the CO’s?” There wasn’t a choice in reality.
It sounds extreme but this is how things were done in some units. I took a drunken Sgt into a Guardroom once. Returning home from an exciting night, finding himself locked out and desperate for a crap, he’d shit on a German neighbour’s doorstep thinking it was his own; it was a block of flats and he’d got the wrong landing. The Duty Warrant officer arrived just after we’d booked him in. I was trying to give him the details but some tiresome squaddie was continuously screaming and shouting from the cells. He was gobbing off about various people in the unit and just wouldn’t shut up when asked politely by the Guard Commander (probably on his best behaviour).
The Duty WO, dressed in his splendid mess dress complete with red jacket, said eventually, “Excuse me, Corporal. I won’t be a minute.” Keys handed over, he walked to the cells where he told the soldier to be quiet. The soldier told him to fuck off. The sound of someone being thumped several times was followed by whimpering. My partner and I inspected our note books whilst the Guard Commander whistled then asked us some inconsequential questions about being a military policeman. The Duty WO returned and said, “Right, what were you saying, Corporal.”
The bloke we’d arrested was bedded down for the night. His neighbours didn’t want to make a formal complaint. The Duty WO said he’d make sure the Sgt, seemingly an otherwise decent and respected senior rank, would make amends by lavishing some gifts and sincere apologies on the Germans concerned. I’m sure it turned out reasonably expensive for the Sgt because sometimes the Army has people you just don’t fuck with.
One time, the Irish Guards RSM had the Guard lock up a British civilian worker and his dog for insubordination. The Guard Commander phoned to tell us he had an issue he wasn’t happy with and thought illegal but wasn’t in a position to discuss it with the RSM who was in full God mode. The bloke arrested was working for a German firm of gardeners, working within the camp, and had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the British military. Neither did his dog. It turned out he’d been strolling around on his lunch break and the dog had crapped on the grass. The perambulating RSM told him to clean it up and he said he’d do it later. That’s when the conversation went downhill rapidly.
The Guard were summoned and unceremoniously frogmarched the ‘offender’ to the Guard Room. Whatever their thoughts they weren’t going to argue with ‘God’, unlike the civilian. The dog happily trotted into captivity behind the ‘parade’. The Guard Commander almost shat himself but couldn’t do anything about the situation until the RSM had finished a little impromptu inspection and had his fill of fucking people about (I could have said ‘got bored’ but no one in the Army ever gets bored fucking people about). Anyway, that’s where we came into play. The blame for the early release would be firmly placed on our shoulders and the Guard Commander would claim a passing MP patrol made him do it.
We explained to the civvy all about the RSM’s local status as ‘God’ and ‘dusted’ the guy down. He was ok about it, especially as he’d been given a free dinner while he was waiting for us to turn up and the dog had a saucer of tea and jam toast. We all had a little chuckle and the dog, who’d caused the whole thing in the first place, had a satisfying yawn and a stretch then trotted out with what I’d swear was a grin.
Exercises: these came and went, each much like any others. We started one with a very nice bloke in charge. He had people skills and was much respected. After almost a week he received notice that he’d been posted and was to be replaced by another CSM. He realised the hours we were working were somewhat ridiculous and told us he’d been successful in obtaining a couple more guys, from company, to ease the situation. We felt good. The extras appeared, the future looked rosy, ish, but not for long, for the replacement was a man who cared not a jot about those beneath him. We were there, it seemed, simply to satisfy his need to fuck someone about.
Immediately, we were working more hours than we had before. Gone was four hours sleep, we were down to less than two, if you could find somewhere to hide long enough. He took to sneaking around our bed spaces, finding things he would later use as an excuse to discipline us. This resulted in a number of incidents.
One was his taking of a Sterling Sub Machine Gun (SMG) when the ‘owner’ laid it on his webbing outside his tent and nipped quickly in to get something. He came out to see the CSM walking off with it. That was him given extra duties and a charge to face when we returned to camp. He shouldn’t have let go of the damned thing, all squaddies know that, we even sleep with them, but he was new and, in the circumstances, a shouting at would have sufficed.
Next, he went on a little bag search when people were occupied elsewhere. As a result he found a bottle of Doornkaat schnapps in someone’s 58 pattern webbing back pack. As the idle bastard that owned it (me) hadn’t written their details on their kit he asked around and bullied someone who told him it was Addy’s.
Now, Brian Richard Addicott was a good lad and was generally called ‘Addie’ by the rest of us. He was dragged before the CSM, accused, grilled then given a ‘field punishment’ of extra duties. He knew whose schnapps it was, we’d sat and drank some of it, on occasions, but he wasn’t going to grass on me because we all had a little bit of liquid comfort stashed away somewhere. The CSM (I won’t even give him the respect of the title ‘Stickman’) subsequently declared a dry exercise which resulted in everyone having to bury their chosen tipple in the ground, covering the treasure with leaves, whenever we became seriously static or, if mobile, it was stashed in tool boxes or in the camouflage nets bungeed on top of the vehicles. Perhaps, somewhere, there actually was such a thing as a dry exercise but in the mid 1970s, in West Germany, no one had ever heard or seen it.
We were providing policing support to 1 British Corps HQ. Their locations were divided up into segments called ‘diamonds’. Diamonds 1 and 2 (as I recall) were the secure locations where security was highest. These two were surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by members of the Mixed Service Organisation, known informally as ‘mozo’s’. They were regular faces and I got to know a couple of them fairly well, ex members of the Latvian and Lithuanian SS; naturally, they couldn’t go home.
The signals cookhouse, where we ate because the food was better, was Diamond 9 and it also supplied the booze and chockies for everyone from the back of a well known and much loved 4 ton lorry. Sitting on the security entrance to Diamonds 1 or 2 of a night, it was commonplace to see soldiers returning with yellow handbags (six packs of Herforder pils in yellow packaging). I even saw Officers doing it.
Well, no one was really happy in the first place because we were too tired to smile but the level of joy sank even lower on receipt of the CSM’s declaration. We took to planning some retribution. One night two people waited in the woods, along a route he was often known to take. He didn’t show up so I decided to loosen the front right hand wheel nuts of his Land Rover instead knowing he was due to go out in it the following morning. Several hours later, I had to return to tighten them back up on learning he’d given the job to one of the senior Cpls.
At Endex, I was given the task of being the last to leave, remaining to carry out traffic control for the mass breakout from the woods. On the way home, both I and my partner in crime could hear a weird noise coming from somewhere in our vehicle. Even though we gave it a quick inspection, nothing could be found.
Back at the Duty Room, we tried to report it but the female Duty Sgt said it was best not to draw unwanted attention and we should park it over at the MT garages and get in early to speak to the ‘Tiffy’(a nickname RMP give their mechanics; I believe it comes from Artificer).
A great plan which went wrong when the RMP MT Sgt, for the first time in his life, decided to get in early, even earlier than the ‘Tiff’. Next minute, I’m tapping the boards charged with criminal damage to the value of £5000. The vehicle was the same bloody vehicle I’d loosened the wheel nuts on. It seems, in the dark, after several beers, my nut tightening ability had been a tadge lax. Karma, no doubt.
I refused to plead guilty, even after I’d been removed from the OC’s office for strong advice to be administered. On the spot, I decided to carry out my own defence in the guise of ‘Rumpole of the Bailey’ aided by my brief, ‘Rodger the Dodger’. We were inspired. Noting a certain CSM wasn't present at the proceedings, I mentioned he'd been driving the damned thing for, possibly, quite a considerable distance and then added the name of the Cpl I heavily suspected of caving in to pressure in the ‘Doornkaat Affair’. Desperate times needed desperate measures. I summoned the MT Sgt as my first witness. Well, the only witness, actually. He confirmed my suspicions by producing the vehicle 'work ticket’ (log book) and, in response to my question, confirmed that the damage to the Land Rover could have occurred over several hundred miles, much further than I had driven it. Furthermore, inspection of the work ticket showed there were gaps in the entries which corresponded with the days I'd recalled the CSM (my nemesis) driving the vehicle. There should have been an entry for each usage stating amongst other things the details of the actual driver. He hadn't filled it in as per military instructions. Additionally, as the senior on the exercise, he was supposed to have checked all the work tickets for the vehicles we used and signed them off as correct. He hadn't done that either. Consternation and embarrassment for those involved in my 'prosecution'!
I was sent out of the room whilst the situation was discussed at length. Brought back in, I was found guilty of “Failing to report I had heard a funny noise coming from the vehicle.” The exact words of the OC. I was fined £5. All things considered, it was a pleasing outcome.
The female Sgt had to deny we’d reported the matter to her or else face a charge herself in respect of failing to make a Daily Occurrence Book entry. The MT Sgt only took the action he did because he was under managerial scrutiny and thought he was being tested. My colleague initially tried to back me up but we agreed, when they began to press him, that he should deny everything and claim loss of memory due to sleep deprivation.
I accepted the ad hoc finding of guilt and the fine, it would have been silly not to really. I considered it a moral victory. The Company avoided the possibility of an embarrassing Court Martial and, once again, I avoided sampling the delights of someone else’s Guardroom. Cracking result all round, I thought.