EXODUS
Although I loved the police work side of things, I didn’t, at that time, enjoy what was called ‘Provost Ops’.
This was the wartime role of the Military Police and involved, mainly and in basic terms, the signing and maintenance of numerous Military Supply Routes (MSRs) and various ‘harbour areas’ (the nearest wood) into which military convoys could disappear if the routes were blocked by enemy action. Sounds fine. The problem was it also involved living in the woods or next to some farmer's pigsty, shitting in a bush, staying awake for 22 hours a day and something called ‘stand to positions’. It was generally cold and wet in the winter and hot, sweaty and uncomfortable in the summer. This was not only down to the weather. There were some items of kit that were generally useless.
We had been issued with what people referred to as the Canadian parka. Although not waterproof, it was a wonderful bit of kit that worked because it was warm and had a hood you could shape to keep the wind out. Someone in a high place next to a radiator must have noticed because they promptly took them off us and handed out greatcoats that had last seen service in the western desert. Each greatcoat had enough material in it to make twenty normal blankets and, unless you were naked underneath, it was almost impossible to move in them.
Shirt KF: The KF allegedly stood for khaki flannel. The word flannel conjured up, for me, something soft and comfortable. What did I know? It was in reality a blanket with sleeves and a collar. In hot weather it soaked up your sweat, clung to your armpits and rubbed your neck, releasing the cold sweat just about when the sun was going down and everything was getting a tadge chillier .
DMS boots: Looked wonderful, bulled (highly polished), for duty wear and general perambulating around a garrison but not much good for wearing on exercise, particularly if you made the mistake of wearing them with the issued military insoles, which were basically a simple flexible nylon cheese grater that foolish people like sprogs put in their boots.
Woollen gloves: Generally all round useless. They didn’t keep your hands dry, they weren’t warm and driving in them was difficult because the steering wheel could slide too easily through your grip.
The Army penknife: A one bladed affair, made of shiny metal which had difficulty cutting through melting butter. It was just the sort of thing you needed, on a sunny day, to alert the enemy to where you sat idly whittling the interesting stick you’d found whilst bored shitless on sentry duty. It did contain an extra tool though, which could only be used, surely, for getting stones out of a horse’s hoof. Unfortunately, you had to buy your own horse.
Waterproofs. If the Army issued waterproof jackets and trousers around this time no one told me, my mates or the quartermaster. The item to use was the ‘poncho’ which was a large rectangle of waterproofed nylon with a hood in the middle. The marvellous thing about it was it could also be used to make a tent (Army speak: Basha). The downside of using it as a tent was that when it rained you had nothing to wear to keep you dry. The only other thing I possessed with magical rain repelling properties was the mackintosh everyone referred to as the ‘flasher’ mac. There were a number of reasons why this was unsuitable, namely, it was camel coloured which made the reasons for wearing camouflage combat jacket and trousers redundant, it rustled every time you moved so it was difficult to sneak up on people and, quite simply, it made you look like a pervert.
But it wasn’t only kit that made life uncomfortable. An important thing on exercise was where to sleep, should you be given the opportunity. No one expected the ‘Ritz’ but we were ever hopeful of something bearable. Often, it was shit for two reasons because if you didn’t find your own locations and were embedded with any other units two rules applied.
Rule 1: all the best specs would be taken by the other Unit(s).
Rule 2: Of the shit specs left, the senior Cpls were going to bag the best, experienced Lcpls the next and sprogs would be left sucking their thumbs, clutching an unfurled sleeping bag like a security blanket.
If you found your own locations then only rule 2 applied.
The thing was, the old arses knew how to make themselves comfortable; after just six weeks basic training you didn’t really have a clue. Not everyone was helpful and there was a certain amount of ‘I’m all right, Jack’ going on.
On Exercise Chinese Eye, held around the Hildesheim area in the winter of 1975, myself and Lcpl Taccinelli found ourselves sucking our thumbs on a patch of grass outside a small outhouse, the inside of which looked like a seal colony, every inch of it being exploited and defended by the occupants. When we'd tried to squeeze in we were advised to drag a tent out of a trailer. It was sound advice because although it was just possible to swing a cat around in there, it had nowhere to land.
In the dark, after a hard day’s work waving our arms about, we erected our tent and set up a grey kerosene heater with the intention of cooking our tea and making a brew on it. The problem was it was difficult to stay in there for too long because of the fumes, so we stood outside in the freezing cold, occasionally nipping in to discover our ‘boiled’ rice was still rock hard. In the back of my mind there was some piece of knowledge about the heater’s wick but for the life of me I couldn’t retrieve it because of the pigeons that were roosting back there.
We were in danger of starving and freezing with an alternative of suffocating, none of which were particularly attractive, when Cpl Barry Shaw, one of the quick witted and sarcastic individuals that normally could reduce you to a stuttering wreck in the Mess, suddenly, stepped out of the outhouse (for a breath of fresh air, he said, but I’ve often wondered). He came over, took one look at us, shook his head sadly and said, “Come on, I’ll show you what to do.”
The thing about the wick I couldn’t remember? It needed to be trimmed every now and then to work without fumes and to give out any meaningful heat. Within minutes he had it working to optimum effect. He binned the rock hard rice, rummaged around in someone else’s trailer and came back with a chuckle and some more appropriate rations then generally set us up so we could do ourselves a brew and watch our food heat up in the mess tins on top of the heater. We slept with the door open and woke refreshed the next morning.
During that exercise, there were some other notable moments for me; like being left on a point for hours before a Cpl called Steve pulled up and thrust a bottle out of the window at me. “Take a mouthful of that.” I did. It was wonderful. Cough medicine for grownups. It was the first time I’d tasted Jägermeister. I was re-invigorated instantly.
Standing on another spot at a ‘T’ junction I had a small square and a Gaststätte (German pub) behind me. Some tables and chairs adorned a portion of the square immediately in front of the pub. Everything was going well until one Chieftain tank, which was following my directions, shed one of its heavy rubber shoes (these were fixed to the individual tracks to protect the road surfaces). It sailed perilously close to my head, frightening the life out of me. I was still recovering when the next tank sped forward. I kept waving at it to turn to its right but the driver's face told me it was time to leg it. Careering across the square squashing several tables, the turret traversed right then left in a wild effort to ensure the barrel missed the buildings and it came to a juddering halt just inches away from the main wall of the Gaststätte. I didn’t have time to gaze too long in admiration, though, as I had more waving to do.
On another occasion I was left in the centre of a town, next to a railway crossing, having successfully directed a convoy through. Standing at the side of the road it became clear that this action, combined with the train frequency, had caused a massive backlog of traffic. I was trying to decide if I should do something about it when a car stopped next to me and the German male driving it, said quite pleasantly in perfect English, “I think you have caused this, perhaps it’s time you could mend it?” He was right, so I did. It seemed a lot longer but it was probably only 30 minutes and I had it all sorted, just in time to be picked up with another shot of Jägermeister.
On the next exercise I did we were ‘billeted’ in a farmer’s pigsty and someone said there were rats in there. I have a massive dislike and fear of rats and wasn’t looking forward to sleeping on the straw floor in my sleeping bag. There was a pub just down the road so, with nothing else to do, we walked down there and I found myself a nice new friend. Whilst the others were playing darts, or some such thing, I got chatting at the bar with a bloke who told me all about how he’d been in the fire brigade during the war. Now, the funny system the Germans had was you bought a drink and they marked it up on your beer mat and at the end of the session you paid for it. So, here we are chatting away and he buys me a drink; a beer with a schnapps chaser. I buy him the next one and so it went on until at the end of the night when he bade me farewell, I looked at my beer mat. It was full. Totally covered in little pen strikes signifying the drinks we’d drunk but were still to be paid for. All my ‘holiday’ cash gone in one gloriously drunken go. I was too pissed to care. I slept well, that night, undisturbed by the rats or fear. The next morning, I had a banging headache.
On one exercise we found ourselves down near the southern edge of the British responsibility, in a lovely village where all the houses were painted white. It nestled just at the base of the mountains. The locals were quite welcoming and, if you had to man the traffic post we’d set up at the far end, the customers from the pub would often come out of a night and hand you bottles of beer or a little schnapps.
When we first got there the priority for us was finding bedspace. We resorted to using a nearby council facility that was used for storing gravel and salt together with the associated vehicles for spreading them. As usual, some elements from other units had got there first but they directed us to an area on the far side of an open fronted building they weren’t using. We found a little workers ‘caravan’ and decided to check it out. It had a fairly large triangular tow bar. As some of us made to the back to see its potential, Junior (he’d been a Junior Soldier) stayed chatting to someone else at the front.
Unfortunately, none of us thought to check if the stabilising rear legs were down and, as he was standing directly over the tow bar, when we clambered in the back the excess weight caused the whole thing to tip up resulting in him being tossed into the air with the tow bar firmly between his legs. And there he sat, emitting a truly ear piercing scream. This was followed by a shout from a distance of “Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to give a briefing here.”
In the back of the caravan, we were just a tangle of arms and legs and were having severe difficulty in getting up. Junior meanwhile was doing his best to groan quietly but not succeeding and the next thing we heard was an Officer saying, “For pity’s sake, Corporal, stop fucking around and get down,” followed by Junior squeaking, “I’m trying, Sir, I’m trying.” With that, we managed to crawl out of the rear and the whole thing rebalanced itself, which was good news for all but Junior. He plummeted to earth but landed perfectly. However, the trailer bar hit the ground and bounced back up hitting him between the legs. Groaning as silently as he could, he fell in a heap at the Officer’s feet like a sacrificial offering. The Officer, looking down at him, said, “Good. Well. Keep the noise down,” and disappeared back to his briefing. It was a few days before we saw Junior walking properly again.
Exercise TriCap. This was an exercise with a difference. Held in the camp at Werl, we occupied the little woods surrounding the main car park. It was a nice little set up and very cosy. The point of the whole thing was to test the ‘three phases of a Military Policeman’s life; Police duties, Provost Ops and Social’. All the RMP units in Germany were there.
I can’t recall what we all did but I think I was involved in some route signing and trailer reversing. The Police work side of things was being left to a couple of lads who’d just studied for and passed their testing to be Class 1 Cpls. It was a tactical thing.
Mainly, I remember the social event which was to consist of each unit putting on a short show/entertainment on the stage, in the gym. We’d had a go at this previously when we’d done a Christmas show back in Münster which had been well received. We’d been planning and organising it for months. It was to consist of several short musical interludes with various unit members dressed as amusing characters or well known entertainers. We had ‘Big Bad John’ where someone mimed to Jimmy Dean’s original whilst a succession of progressively taller people acted out the scenes sung until the smallest chap in the unit walked in and was unveiled as ‘Big Bad John’. We had ‘Showaddywaddy’ complete with teddy boy white coats and a set of drums covered in the reflective materials we were making the Garrison town circuit signage out of. We had a young ‘Army days’ Elvis Presley, superbly done by Jeff Jackson in genuine US fatigues (borrowed from Handorf US base. Those guys knew how to starch a suit!).
The pièce de résistance was Elvis returning back to the stage in his trade mark white bejewelled costume, in front of a large flashing scrolled Elvis sign, to the accompaniment of ‘Also sprach Zarathustra’ before bursting into a live sung rendition of ‘See See Rider’. Jacko knew all the moves and all the words. He even ad-libbed part way through when he lowered the backing music, looked at the Provost Marshall and said, in his best Elvis, “Just remember, son. You may be the Boss, but I’ll always be the King!” The PM loved it, one or two on either side looked horrified and the whole thing went down a storm.
Now, the gym also had a bar set up and it was doing great business. When the results of the judging came in and the Unit who had danced across the stage dressed as ballerinas were declared the winners, a bit of an argument broke out. Us ‘actors’ were just supping our first pints when one of our senior Cpls came over, having read the signs, and suggested we de-bunk across to our little bit of the woods. A swift re-order was put in and we negotiated our way through what was now becoming a heated debate.
A while later, I was sent back over for essential supplies and met someone coming out of the bar carrying a large tray full of drinks. He winked at me and said, “I’d get in there quick if I was you. It’s all about to kick off.” I’d never seen him before but he was a bloke called Ray Wilson and we met again some two years later at the Police Training Centre in Bruche, Warrington, on a continuation course. For a day and a half we’d eyed each other up before asking, “Do I know you from somewhere?”
Good advice taken, and supplies in hands, I weaved through the crowd aware that something had kicked off to my rear right. We sat under the cam nets, relaxing like lords, supping various spirits, beer and, eventually, a sour cherry liqueur called Persico whilst we tried to see what was happening in the distance and when we couldn’t, we decided to talk bollocks all night instead. It was a huge success. Apparently, the situation in the gym got so out of hand, rumour had it a local Guardroom had to turn people out to restore order. Happy days!
One standard feature of most exercises was the instruction to avoid opening a ration pack unless absolutely necessary. The reason was always claimed to be that supplies were getting low and the Army wouldn’t give the Quartermaster (QM – often shortened to Q) any more until the following year.
Being dim, I believed it but, luckily, for one crew he found, the Commander Military Police, BAOR, referred to as ‘Compo’, didn’t believe this guff and the story went around of how he’d come across a Traffic Post, whose occupants were looking weak and pale for want of a nearby fast food stand (Schnellimbiss), and had promptly cooked them up a sterling brekky from their ‘not to be used’ rations.
I’d often wondered why certain senior ranks would park their caravans and campers outside the stores block before they went on holiday. I just assumed they were saying goodbye to the Q and asking if he wanted a stick of rock bringing back. Others knew the real reason.
I only discovered the lie of the ‘desperate ration pack situation’ when the Q disappeared one day and his Cpl storeman tipped us off. He pulled some shelving from a wall, removed a large plywood board and revealed a sizeable hole through which we saw a whole new room stacked with ration boxes and packs. You’d never know it was there otherwise. It would seem you could afford a boss camper van if you never had to pay for the family’s holiday food.
Whilst in the stores, and the Cpl distracted, several of us took advantage and filled our pockets with anything we could find in the overfilled cardboard boxes that lined the shelves. We didn’t actually need ten pairs of laces or eight shiny cap badges and collar dogs or the BAOR handbook of handy tactical phrases in German but seeing as, normally, it was extremely difficult to get a Quartermaster to give you anything, the opportunity couldn’t be passed up. Yes, we stole the ‘precious things’ but on the bright side I still had spare laces for my police boots at least six years later.