…
It was a tradition at my school that, on the last day the leavers were invited onto the stage where they sat through the morning assembly, until the Headmaster, eventually acknowledged them as ‘young men and women taking the next step of their lives’. Following his usual speech, he would invite them all back to join the School Youth Club. I sat gazing into space, as usual, until I heard him call my name. Stunned, I responded to his beckoning, left my seat, and went forward.
“You may of course end up as master Griffiths has,” he stood me in front of him facing the sea of fresh faces gripping my shoulders tightly. I went ‘beetroot’ every eye in the place fixed me, he continued, “unable to read, unable to write, a truant, a criminal, a thoroughly bad lot, and a person who will not be allowed back over the threshold of this school ever again.” He looked around finding the face of Mr Wilson the History teacher. “Mr Wilson, take this boy away,” he ordered, “and escort him off the premises immediately.”
I couldn’t say a thing, I was so shocked. Within seconds I was marched from the Hall and deposited outside the school gate. Moments later, I stood alone, leaving certificate in hand and watched as Mr Wilson made his way along the drive and back to the Hall.
That was the first time I realised the error of my ways, the second came two weeks later when I went for a job interview as an apprentice welder with a local sheet metal works.
I arrived at the works on time, feeling very confident and met up with several other young hopefuls. We were taken to a classroom and sat at individual desks each with a set of papers turned face down. Moments later the personnel manager arrived and told us to turn the papers over. I did, my eyes met a sheet of ‘mumbo jumbo’. Once he announced that the ‘test’ had to be completed in twenty minutes, I’d lost it. In that second, all the confidence I came in with left me. I looked around as everyone else dipped their heads and became engrossed in the task, I watched as pencils quivered into action. I sat, for what seemed like an age, I looked at the paper and nothing happened, how could it? In desperation I stood up and ran for the door leaving the welding job behind.
For the next eighteen months I moved from Job to Job, a building site labourer one week, a warehouse worker the next, in that short period of time I left, or was sacked, from no fewer than fifteen jobs.
One Friday night I sat caressing a pint of Double Diamond bitter in the Spring Cottage pub and looked around, the gang sat with me, all of them were working, one, ‘Rolls’, had even managed to get the welding job. The conversation turned to travel everyone saying they’d travel the world, ‘let’s go to Africa’ one would say, ‘let’s go to Australia’ said another, in the end I got pissed off and said, “lets have a bet. I bet that I’ll travel further in the next three years than any one else here.” The bet was on.
“And how are your going to do that?” Asked Jed.
“Simple I said, I’m joining the Army.”
Bright and early Monday morning I presented myself at the Army careers office. A small, fit, looking sergeant sat at the reception desk and took some details from me before pointing to a steel bar fixed across a doorway leading to an office.
“How many times do you think you can pull yourself up on that bar over there?”
“Dunno.” I answered.
“Well, you have to be able to do at least ten, if you can’t, then we don’t go any further,” he pointed to the bar again, “off you go.” He said.
Ten was no problem. At twenty-five he stopped me. We carried on with the ‘selection’. He asked the questions, I answered, and he ticked or crossed little boxes. When it came to the question of which part of the Army I wanted to join I hadn’t got a clue and stumbled for an answer.
“Was your Dad in the Army?”
“Yes” I said “he was a driver.”
“That’s it then, The Royal Corps of Transport, same as me he said.”
“Did you know my Dad?” Stupid question I realised.
He looked up from his notes, his face said it all, he shook his head and carried on.
“Ok, the way it works is this, you take a short test.” He noted the change, “What’s the matter?” I didn’t answer, “Problem with the test is it,” he continued, “well it isn’t a test as you know them, there’s no pass or fail, you answer the questions and this gives me a score, the higher the score the more opportunities.”
I wasn’t convinced. Once again, I sat at a desk looking at a piece of paper, and once again, I didn’t have a clue.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes to answer as many questions as possible.” The sergeant clicked his stopwatch. “Off you go.”
I put my finger under the first word of the first page and read it slowly to my self, then I moved to the second and third. Click, I heard the stopwatch.
“Can you read?”
“Yeah, but not too good.”
“ I shouldn’t do this, but I will, I’ll read you the question to save a bit of time and you give me the answer.”
Fifteen minutes later the clock stopped for a second time. The sergeant measured my score.
“Well, your score indicates either a light infantry role or, if you want a Corps, it’d have to be the Pioneer Corps.” He sat back in his seat, interlaced his fingers behind his head, and pondered for a moment. “I’ll stick my neck out,” he said as he moved forward, “I’ll put you down for the RCT and let the recruit selection sort it ou
Monday 26 April 2010
Sunday 11 April 2010
WAIT OUT Part 6 (Boy Soldiers)
Steen looked around making sure no one was watching, satisfied, he held the sheep firmly on the killing cradle, he took one more look around, reached for his boning knife and plunged it deep into the side of its neck, the sheep struggled, its eyes rolling as its life blood ran away.
“Did ya, stun that ewe before ya killed her?”
Jock was surprised by the Forman’s appearance. Looking him straight in the eye, he answered. “Yeah”.
“Ya lyin’ little bastard, you’ve no stunned it at all.” The foreman’s, thin tight face filled with sympathy as he looked down at the cradle. “I’ve been a butcher for many a year lad, and I canna say ‘ave seen anyone as cruel as you. It’s the last time I’ll warn ya, if you’re caught again, you’ll be off.” Walking away, he looked back. “For pities sake, have some thought for the wee beasts.”
Jock turned to his work, rolled the sheep over, and began the task of butchering the animal ready for the table.
The 15 August 1969, had been a long day, although tired, he read his newspaper as he began the long bus ride home. In the past year, he’d seen an increase in the activities across the water. Patrick O’Brien had said that the recently held civil rights marches had opened up old Catholic wounds and that armed conflict was merely a matter of time. Now, as he read the paper, it seemed as though the time had come:
DURING THE NIGHT, HUNDRED’S OF PROTESTANT YOUTHS RAMPAGED THROUGH THE STREETS OF BELFAST SETTING FIRE TO CATHOLIC PROPERTIES AND BEATING UP INNOCENT CATHOLICS AS THEY MADE THEIR WAY HOME. IN RETALIATION, CATHOLIC YOUTHS FOUGHT RUNNING BATTLES WITH THE PROTESTANT RUN RESERVE POLICE FORCE, KNOWN AS THE B SPECIALS. PETROL BOMBS WERE THROWN AS MOBS ROAMED THE STREETS. IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING HOMES WERE STILL BURNING, AS POLICE USED AUTOMATIC WEAPONS TO RESTORE ORDER. IRISH POLITICIANS ARE CALLING FOR THE DEPLOYMENT OF TROOPS….
Within minutes of arriving home there was a knock at the door. Patrick O’Brien’s grim face met Steen’s.
“Have you heard the news.?”
“I’ve read the papers.”
“So you’ve not heard then, troops have been sent in, it’s on the television news as we speak.” O’Brien led the way into the lounge. His mood changing as he realised Mrs Steen was there. “And how’s my Agnes?” he said, as she stood from her chair and turned to face him.
“Och I’m very well indeed. I wasn’t expecting you ‘til the week-end.”
“I was just passing and thought I’d call in to see Jock.”
“Are you still taking me to the pictures at the week-end?”
“Of course I am, I’d not let a fine lady down, now would I.”
“Jock’s meal is in the oven, I can make it spread if ya feel like stayin’ a while.”
“ No Agnes, thanks for the offer though.” He turned to Jock, “ There’s an open night and shooting competition at the local Territorial Army barracks tomorrow night, I thought you might like to come along and have a go.”
“Aye, I’d like that. Do I have to tak’ ma own gun?”
“No, they’re using .22 rifles.”
“Right enough, I’ll look forward ta that.”
The following morning at 7 a.m. Jock tied his apron, put on his gumboots and made his way to the slaughterhouse for another ‘sheep day’. All around him, the conversations were the same, Protestants and Catholics debating the issues facing Ulster. Minutes before lunch a small ewe struggled free from Jock’s grip, he wrestled it for a moment before slipping, ‘spread eagled’ across the floor. A roar of laughter, from his fellow work-mates, added to his humiliation, he smiled embarrassingly as a colleague handed him the ewe. Placing it on the cradle he looked around, his smile broadening the other slaughter men were still laughing, turning back to the ewe, Steen took hold of one of its front legs and with a swift movement broke it, the ewe screamed, the slaughterhouse fell silent. Steen looked up, “It wont fuckin’ run away now, will it.”
Horrified, several of the men went for him. He pulled his knife and waved it in the air challenging anyone who dared to approach. The ‘stand off’ was broken when the foreman told him to collect his things and leave. As he walked away, a man stepped forward and quickly killed the suffering animal.
By 6.30 p.m., there was no sign of remorse. In the Army barracks, Jock was handling the .22 rifle as though he’d been born with it. A Territorial Army Sergeant explained the working mechanism, inviting him to ‘dress forward' to the firing line. The indoor range was nothing more than a long stone corridor with a pulley system which sent ten-inch cardboard targets to a wall of sandbags some fifty yards away, a dim light hovered overhead. At the Sergeant’s instruction Jock lay down and took aim. Slowly he squeezed the trigger, a loud crack echoed off the walls, the target twitched as the round hit.
“Well you’ve hit the target at least.” The sergeant said.
“To far to the left.” Jock replied. He adjusted his aim, cocked the weapon, and fired again. “That’s better.” He followed the sequence again, accurately sending his third and final shot.
“OK, lay the weapon down keeping the mussel pointed down the range and step back.” Jock moved away, as the sergeant retrieved the target. “Well done lad,” he said “you’ve got two bulls and one just left of centre, great shooting. Have you shot before?”
“I’ve got an air rifle.”
“Is this the first time you’ve shot full bore then?.
“Yeah.”
“Well you should think about joining up lad, that’s a hell of a shot you’ve got.” Jock shrugged his shoulders as he moved away. The sergeant turned to the line of boys anyone want to try and beat that?”
“I can’t see anyone beating that score.” O’Brien said as he viewed the target. “Come on Jock, we’ll have a look at the displays and wait to see if you win.” The two walked away and crossed the barracks towards the display area. Steen was quieter than normal. “Something bothering you Jock?” O’Brien asked.
“I lost my job today.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“The foreman’s a cruel bastard, I caught him breaking the leg of a sheep, and tried to stop him, so he sacked me.” Steen lied.
“Did you report him?”
“No point, he’s the man in charge, besides, all his mates work there.”
“Have you told your Mum?”
“No, not yet.”
“Any idea what you’ll do now.”
“I’ll start looking for a new job tomorrow.”
“ What about the Army, you’ve proved your a good shot, that’ll go a long way in there.”
“ No, I’ve said before I won’t join the British Army and fight my own people.”
“ You won’t have to, you could be in there and be helping the struggle.”
“What a ya saying” Jock’s interest was aroused.
“ Remember the Baden Powell book, he spent a lot of his time gathering information which was used by the British Intelligence Service.”
“Spying ya mean?”
“In a word, yes. The more you know about the enemy the better the chances of defeating them.” O’Brien kept an eye open for anyone who might overhear the conversation.
“Are you sayin’ I could join the British Army and spy for the IRA.” Steen’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Well, not only that. You see Jock, most of the IRA are older men who haven’t seen a weapon for years, in fact most of them have forgotten where they hid their old weapons. Young recruits are enthusiastic but have no skills. But a British trained soldier could lick them into shape in no time.”
Jock was deep in thought when the TA sergeant arrived with a winners certificate. “There you are son, well done.” He handed the certificate over shaking Jock’s hand as he did.
“Is there a place in the Army for a lad like this then?” O’Brien enquired.
“With a shot like that he’s got the makings of a fine sniper.” The sergeant said as he walked away.
“See what I mean Jock, just think what a trained sniper could offer the IRA.”
“But what about ma Mum and ma brothers and sister?”
“It’d be a great honour for me to look after them, whilst you’re away helping the boys over the water, and as you know, I’ve been seeing a lot of your mother lately, a bit more wouldn’t go amiss.”
“If I did decide to do it how would I get in touch with the IRA?”
“That, my boy, is something with which I can assist.” O’Brien searched Steen’s face. “Seriously,” he continued, “if you want to go down this line then it has to be a very well kept secret, you mustn’t mention it to anyone,” O’Brien’s voice changed emphasising the importance of the conversation, “No one!” He said forcefully.
“Did ya, stun that ewe before ya killed her?”
Jock was surprised by the Forman’s appearance. Looking him straight in the eye, he answered. “Yeah”.
“Ya lyin’ little bastard, you’ve no stunned it at all.” The foreman’s, thin tight face filled with sympathy as he looked down at the cradle. “I’ve been a butcher for many a year lad, and I canna say ‘ave seen anyone as cruel as you. It’s the last time I’ll warn ya, if you’re caught again, you’ll be off.” Walking away, he looked back. “For pities sake, have some thought for the wee beasts.”
Jock turned to his work, rolled the sheep over, and began the task of butchering the animal ready for the table.
The 15 August 1969, had been a long day, although tired, he read his newspaper as he began the long bus ride home. In the past year, he’d seen an increase in the activities across the water. Patrick O’Brien had said that the recently held civil rights marches had opened up old Catholic wounds and that armed conflict was merely a matter of time. Now, as he read the paper, it seemed as though the time had come:
DURING THE NIGHT, HUNDRED’S OF PROTESTANT YOUTHS RAMPAGED THROUGH THE STREETS OF BELFAST SETTING FIRE TO CATHOLIC PROPERTIES AND BEATING UP INNOCENT CATHOLICS AS THEY MADE THEIR WAY HOME. IN RETALIATION, CATHOLIC YOUTHS FOUGHT RUNNING BATTLES WITH THE PROTESTANT RUN RESERVE POLICE FORCE, KNOWN AS THE B SPECIALS. PETROL BOMBS WERE THROWN AS MOBS ROAMED THE STREETS. IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING HOMES WERE STILL BURNING, AS POLICE USED AUTOMATIC WEAPONS TO RESTORE ORDER. IRISH POLITICIANS ARE CALLING FOR THE DEPLOYMENT OF TROOPS….
Within minutes of arriving home there was a knock at the door. Patrick O’Brien’s grim face met Steen’s.
“Have you heard the news.?”
“I’ve read the papers.”
“So you’ve not heard then, troops have been sent in, it’s on the television news as we speak.” O’Brien led the way into the lounge. His mood changing as he realised Mrs Steen was there. “And how’s my Agnes?” he said, as she stood from her chair and turned to face him.
“Och I’m very well indeed. I wasn’t expecting you ‘til the week-end.”
“I was just passing and thought I’d call in to see Jock.”
“Are you still taking me to the pictures at the week-end?”
“Of course I am, I’d not let a fine lady down, now would I.”
“Jock’s meal is in the oven, I can make it spread if ya feel like stayin’ a while.”
“ No Agnes, thanks for the offer though.” He turned to Jock, “ There’s an open night and shooting competition at the local Territorial Army barracks tomorrow night, I thought you might like to come along and have a go.”
“Aye, I’d like that. Do I have to tak’ ma own gun?”
“No, they’re using .22 rifles.”
“Right enough, I’ll look forward ta that.”
The following morning at 7 a.m. Jock tied his apron, put on his gumboots and made his way to the slaughterhouse for another ‘sheep day’. All around him, the conversations were the same, Protestants and Catholics debating the issues facing Ulster. Minutes before lunch a small ewe struggled free from Jock’s grip, he wrestled it for a moment before slipping, ‘spread eagled’ across the floor. A roar of laughter, from his fellow work-mates, added to his humiliation, he smiled embarrassingly as a colleague handed him the ewe. Placing it on the cradle he looked around, his smile broadening the other slaughter men were still laughing, turning back to the ewe, Steen took hold of one of its front legs and with a swift movement broke it, the ewe screamed, the slaughterhouse fell silent. Steen looked up, “It wont fuckin’ run away now, will it.”
Horrified, several of the men went for him. He pulled his knife and waved it in the air challenging anyone who dared to approach. The ‘stand off’ was broken when the foreman told him to collect his things and leave. As he walked away, a man stepped forward and quickly killed the suffering animal.
By 6.30 p.m., there was no sign of remorse. In the Army barracks, Jock was handling the .22 rifle as though he’d been born with it. A Territorial Army Sergeant explained the working mechanism, inviting him to ‘dress forward' to the firing line. The indoor range was nothing more than a long stone corridor with a pulley system which sent ten-inch cardboard targets to a wall of sandbags some fifty yards away, a dim light hovered overhead. At the Sergeant’s instruction Jock lay down and took aim. Slowly he squeezed the trigger, a loud crack echoed off the walls, the target twitched as the round hit.
“Well you’ve hit the target at least.” The sergeant said.
“To far to the left.” Jock replied. He adjusted his aim, cocked the weapon, and fired again. “That’s better.” He followed the sequence again, accurately sending his third and final shot.
“OK, lay the weapon down keeping the mussel pointed down the range and step back.” Jock moved away, as the sergeant retrieved the target. “Well done lad,” he said “you’ve got two bulls and one just left of centre, great shooting. Have you shot before?”
“I’ve got an air rifle.”
“Is this the first time you’ve shot full bore then?.
“Yeah.”
“Well you should think about joining up lad, that’s a hell of a shot you’ve got.” Jock shrugged his shoulders as he moved away. The sergeant turned to the line of boys anyone want to try and beat that?”
“I can’t see anyone beating that score.” O’Brien said as he viewed the target. “Come on Jock, we’ll have a look at the displays and wait to see if you win.” The two walked away and crossed the barracks towards the display area. Steen was quieter than normal. “Something bothering you Jock?” O’Brien asked.
“I lost my job today.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“The foreman’s a cruel bastard, I caught him breaking the leg of a sheep, and tried to stop him, so he sacked me.” Steen lied.
“Did you report him?”
“No point, he’s the man in charge, besides, all his mates work there.”
“Have you told your Mum?”
“No, not yet.”
“Any idea what you’ll do now.”
“I’ll start looking for a new job tomorrow.”
“ What about the Army, you’ve proved your a good shot, that’ll go a long way in there.”
“ No, I’ve said before I won’t join the British Army and fight my own people.”
“ You won’t have to, you could be in there and be helping the struggle.”
“What a ya saying” Jock’s interest was aroused.
“ Remember the Baden Powell book, he spent a lot of his time gathering information which was used by the British Intelligence Service.”
“Spying ya mean?”
“In a word, yes. The more you know about the enemy the better the chances of defeating them.” O’Brien kept an eye open for anyone who might overhear the conversation.
“Are you sayin’ I could join the British Army and spy for the IRA.” Steen’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Well, not only that. You see Jock, most of the IRA are older men who haven’t seen a weapon for years, in fact most of them have forgotten where they hid their old weapons. Young recruits are enthusiastic but have no skills. But a British trained soldier could lick them into shape in no time.”
Jock was deep in thought when the TA sergeant arrived with a winners certificate. “There you are son, well done.” He handed the certificate over shaking Jock’s hand as he did.
“Is there a place in the Army for a lad like this then?” O’Brien enquired.
“With a shot like that he’s got the makings of a fine sniper.” The sergeant said as he walked away.
“See what I mean Jock, just think what a trained sniper could offer the IRA.”
“But what about ma Mum and ma brothers and sister?”
“It’d be a great honour for me to look after them, whilst you’re away helping the boys over the water, and as you know, I’ve been seeing a lot of your mother lately, a bit more wouldn’t go amiss.”
“If I did decide to do it how would I get in touch with the IRA?”
“That, my boy, is something with which I can assist.” O’Brien searched Steen’s face. “Seriously,” he continued, “if you want to go down this line then it has to be a very well kept secret, you mustn’t mention it to anyone,” O’Brien’s voice changed emphasising the importance of the conversation, “No one!” He said forcefully.
Monday 5 April 2010
WAIT OUT part 4
“Stand here whilst I speak to Mr Powell.”
Mrs Birch walked into the Headmaster’s study. She had the most wonderful figure accentuated by a short skirt, black high heels, and dark stockings. I could hear the conversation quite clearly.
“ He’s a bright boy, but he’s missed so much school that he can’t keep up. Is there nothing we can do?” She searched the Head’s face for an answer, but there was none. “He can’t even read.” She continued.
“My hands are tied.” Mr Powell’s deep authoritative tones rang out, “He leaves next year. Bob Stoddard found him wondering around Bentilee, saw his parents and threatened them with Court if they didn’t ensure his attendance. Since then, his father’s delivered him here every day. The parents are coming up with their part of the deal, it’s up to us to do our part. You’re his form teacher, is there any subject he’s good at?”
“Not that I know, he’s just so far behind.”
The conversation paired away as Mr Vernon Goodwin, the science teacher, clicked his way towards me, the metal tips of his highly polished, brown brogue’s heels filling the empty corridor
“Ah, Master Kenneth John Griffiths, long time no see. In trouble again eh?” He asked.
“No!” I said defensively, “They don’t know where to put me.”
“Really.” He said as he turned into the study. As Deputy Head he didn’t bother announcing his arrival. His huge body filled the doorway, looking up I could see his big, purple, face, light up as he acknowledged his colleagues.
“Young Griffiths,” he said cutting straight across any further conversation,
“ I could do with some help in the science lab’s greenhouse, I’ll have him there.”
“ The problem is we can’t just put him there without at least trying to do something about his education.” Mr Powell tapped his desk in thought.
“ Having said this I don’t see any alternative.”
“Good,” Goodwin turned, grabbing me by the arm as he went. “ I’ll have a word with Mrs Bache, she might be able to give him some extra English.” He said over his shoulder as we walked away.
On the few occasions I did attend school, (before being caught by Stoddard), Mr Goodwin and Mrs Bache, were the only teachers who had taken a genuine interest in me. They always encouraged me to attend and would spend time talking about my life on the estate. For the next week, I worked in the Greenhouse, taking cuttings from Fire Nettles and African Violets and then planting them in scores of tiny black pots. True to his word, Goodwin had spoken to Mrs Bache. In one of her breaks, she came to the greenhouse to see me. I saw her approaching, and for the first time realised that, she was quite lovely. She was in her late forty’s about five foot four with shoulder length light brown hair. She had a big hooked nose, but it suited her face and didn’t detract from her sparkling dark eyes and genuine smile.
“Morning Kenneth,” she said as she slid the door open, “my, it’s hot in here, shall we go out side?”
I shrugged my shoulders, sort of hard like as if the heat didn’t bother me,
“Yeah, if you like.” I said
“I want to try and sort out some English lessons for you.” she said as I followed her out. “Don’t look so gloomy, it’s important for you. You really do need to be able to read and write, besides, I’ll make it interesting for you, ok?”
I shrugged my shoulders and made a kind of murmur sound as I nodded.
“Good, come to the library at lunch time.” She ordered, as she walked away.
Sure enough seconds after the lunch bell sounded I walked into the school library, a room I’d visited once in four years and that was during the introduction to the school when I arrived from the Juniors. Mrs Bache had just finished a lesson and was talking to one of her pupils as I arrived. She caught my eye straight away and smiled warmly. I stood awkwardly, trying to find something to look at. She finished her conversation, her pupil left and she called me to her.
“What’s this?” she said as she pointed to a newspaper spread out in front of her.
“A paper.” I said.
“Yes, but what news paper?”
“Dunno,” I said, feeling a little awkward.
“ Well, this is the Daily Mail,” she turned to a wooden stand and pulled off several other newspapers. “This is the Telegraph, The Mirror, The Times, and this is the Evening Sentinel, our local paper, have you seen this before?”
“Yeah, ‘cause I have, we have that at home.”
“Can you tell me what this is about?” She pointed at the Headlines.
I struggled, “err, no, no!”
“Well this is about the Pottery Industry, it’s saying that people will be losing their jobs if the strikes continue. What about this?” She pointed to the headlines in the Daily Mirror.
“Dunno”.
“Well this is telling us that trouble is escalating in Northern Ireland and troops may have to be sent in.”
“So?” I was starting to loose the plot.
“So, this is news. You don’t have to read books if you don’t want to, but you have to know what’s happening around you, being able to read lets you know what’s happening.” She pointed to a seat next to her, “sit here.”
I obeyed.
Week after week I sat at that table whilst Mrs Bache read to me from newspapers and comics like the Dandy, Beano and Hotspur. I struggled terribly to try to grasp the idea of reading, I’d see a simple word like ‘cried’, she’d tell me what it was and I’d be able to read it time after time, until the script changed, then I was lost. In fact, I wasn’t reading at all I was merely memorising shapes.
Working in the greenhouse and meeting Mrs Bache at lunch times suited me. I was doing fine, but it all stopped in October 1968…
The gang were well respected on the estate, and my nights were filled with petty crime and exciting adventures which honed my delinquent skills. At fifteen I could hide anywhere, break into shops and cars without leaving any trace, and fight with the best of them. At the time, my best mate was Peter Humphries, ‘Pump’. He was one of the regular gang and a good looking guy, medium build, dark brown long hair, deep blue eyes and a cocky smile that curled the left side of his lips more than the right. No matter what the problem, Pump had a joke to tell, totally the opposite of his brother Barry. Barry was much older, a hard man, and a very violent criminal . He was thin, sharp featured and always wore dark blue Levi denims. When he wasn’t in prison, or on the take, he would hang around with us.
One dark night, the gang, at Barry’s suggestion, made their way across the fields to the back of the privately owned houses, bordering Hanley High School. Through the iron school railings we could see one particular house which had a workshop at the bottom of the garden and a store of building and plumbing materials, next to a large pile of scrap metal. Within seconds of our arrival I had scaled the school fence and was passing lengths of lead pipe through to the lads. Barry had gone onto the house with two others. Ten minutes later, Earnie Williams, a well built long haired gang member and a close friend shouted a warning to me letting me know that a man and his dog had arrived on the scene. In the darkness, I could see their shadow. It was a big dog! The gang turned and began their escape. I scaled the fence in one, landing awkwardly next to a large, adult, male, figure hiding in the shadows. He made a grab for me and I hit him as hard as I could full in the face. He reeled back landing in a clump of gorse and blackberry bushes, which had been planted, by the school to stop intruders. Earnie, who had waited for me, realising the danger, hit the figure again, as he untangled himself from the prickly bush. Despite this blow, the man made a second grab for me. Once again Earnie leapt to my defence, took a hold of the man and fell with him wrestling to the floor, Earnie soon struggled free and flung the body back into the prickly bushes. We both ran, following the distant fading shadows of our gang. Other larger figures, in pursuit of them, lay between us. I made my way to a small bridge over the stream, between the school and the rough ground leading to the estate. I lay, half in the cold water, covered by the deep shadows of the tall waterside plants, my panting, being masked by the sound of running water. Earnie lay quietly next to me. The adult’s search was intense, the dark figures emerging as uniformed police. We lay still and undetected for a very long time, eventually leaving the fields and joining up with the gang outside the Beverley pub, deep in the estate. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, each telling his story of the ‘great escape’. Not all the gang were present. No one knew who had been caught, and who had slipped away. In the debate, our defences were down. Un-noticed, several police cars swooped in spewing out uniformed officers in every direction. They grabbed anyone they could. I got caught, my arm was forced up my back and I was marched towards a waiting police ‘panda’ car. I struggled, placing my free hand on the roof in an effort to resist the arrest. The officer was not amused and tried to force me into the back seat. A second officer came to assist. He grabbed my hair, pulled it back hard, and with a sudden push, forced my forehead onto the doorframe. The pain made me released my grip and I fell into the rear of the car, piling into the handcuffed figure of Barry. The door shut and the two officers climbed in the front, the driver, flicked the switches for the blue light and siren as we sped away from the melee. As the journey progressed, I protested my innocence. At the junction of Twigg Street and Dividy Road, the car came to a halt. The interior light came on and I saw the bleeding and swollen face of PC Johnson. The scratches from the gorse and blackberry bushes covered the whole of his face and hands. He looked at me intensely for some time before announcing that he couldn’t recognise me. Barry butted in convincingly, stating that I wasn’t one of the gang. Without anymore debate, the door opened and I was dumped on the roadside. I watched in amazement as the car pulled away. I walked back through the estate lowering my head as a fleet of police cars passed by, ferrying the gang to Hanley police station. I made my way home, slipping into my bedroom un-noticed by my parents who were watching one of their favourite TV programmes. Two hours later the clock struck midnight. I sat on the edge of my bed still fully clothed looking out to the street below expecting the arrival of the police at any moment. Another hour passed, before I saw a black police Thames Trader van, known as a ‘Black Mariah’ pull up outside my house. Two heavily built, uniformed officers, walked from the vehicle. My heart was in my mouth as they hammered on the door. The landing light went on. I could hear my father heading from his bedroom down stairs to the front door. There was a muffled exchange, followed by the opening of my bedroom door. My dad’s powerfully built frame filled the opening. I went downstairs with him and walked into a barrage of questions from the two officers.
“One of the others told us you were there” a plump, sweaty, sergeant said.
‘So much for mates.’ I thought.
My mother, dressed in a heavy, pink, candlewick, dressing gown joined the scene, at the point where I was cautioned and arrested. She broke down in tears, her distress lighting my father’s short fuse.
“Look what you’ve done to your mother,” he bawled.
Before the police could stop him he crossed the room and hit me, full in the face with his massive fist. The blow sent me over the settee. Hurt and humiliated I came up fighting, only to be hit again. The sergeant and my mother grabbed Dad, the other officer restrained me, but not before I managed to kick my father hard on the knee.
On the way to the Mariah, my father scanned the neighbour’s houses for signs of life. “Thank God none of the neighbours are up,” he said and went on to comment about what his work mates would say if they ever found out.
As the words left his mouth the Mariah’s door opened and he came face to face with Dave Atkins’ father, one of his workmates. I found this very amusing but kept it to myself, as I sat next to Dave. In the vehicle there were four other gang members accompanied by their fathers. We knew better than to discuss anything and sat in total silence until we arrived at the police station.
Once there, we were put into the custody area adjacent to the cells. Other members of the gang were already going through the process of questioning, having the charges put to them and then having their fingerprints and photographs taken. I sat quietly at the side of my Dad. He in turn sat next to Diane Day. A year younger than me, she had cracking tits, striking good looks and was wearing a red micro-mini skirt, white thigh length boots and a very low cut pink and chocolate brown hoop tank top. She was there with her father and brother Michael, a trusted gang member. When they moved my father asked me if the ‘tart’ he’d been sitting next too had been on the job with us.
“No” I said defensively. I was going to say more but decided not to. Something told me that this was not the time to tell him she was my girlfriend.
Eventually, I was charged with theft and assault, although they didn’t really have the evidence for the assault. Luckily, I wasn’t identified as the first person that, assaulted PC Johnson. Unfortunately, Earnie was and eventually served a year at Werrington Detention Centre. True to the unsaid gang lore, he never told anyone about my true involvement. Following the charges, I, along with others, spent time in custody awaiting the full court hearing. The case was first heard at the local Magistrate’s Court and adjourned on two occasions. At the second appearance my solicitor applied for my release on bail. This was agreed as the case was to be heard at Stoke on Trent Crown Court and that there would be a long delay before getting to trial. The reason for the delay, was down to Barry, who, having left us in the garden, had burgled the house and seriously assaulted the owner and a police officer. Despite the evidence, he pleaded not guilty, forcing us all to a trail at the Crown Court. Months later, we were given a date and duly attended for the trial. On arrival at the court, I was met by a police officer and put back into custody to await my turn before the Judge. Eventually, the charges were put to me and I pleaded guilty to the theft and not guilty to the assault along with everyone else, other than Barry of course. Pleas entered, we all stood side by side in a large, oak, defendant’s box, flanked by prison and police officers. I looked around, the Court, held in the Old Town Hall, was huge and overbearing. The whole room was a mass of creaking carved oak, and red leather covered benches. Stone steps led from the defendant’s box to the cells below. The judge sat facing us in wig and gown with a broad red sash draped from his left shoulder to his right waist. He was completely dwarfed by his enormous chair, which stood high in the centre of the bench. Below him sat his clerk, dressed in a black court robe. Facing the two of them sat a row of black robed, barristers, each sporting a white horse-hair wig. Behind them sat a row of dark suited solicitors. The prosecution sat on the left, the defence on the right. The whole thing, reminded me of a scene from one of the Dickens’ novels I’d seen televised on Sunday afternoons. That thought soon changed, as I glanced behind and above me and caught sight of our families and spectators. In the middle of them, only four or five feet away, sat my Dad, although at the time, it felt as though he was a thousand miles away.
Following our pleas, those of us who had pleaded guilty, were led down the stone stairs to the cold cells below. As I turned to leave the Court, I saw my Dad. He was close to tears. He managed a friendly wink of his eye, which made me feel a lot better. The cells, were as Dickensian as the Court room scene. Each cell was simply, a concrete floor surrounded by heavy, black, steel bars. A single toilet stood obviously in the centre of the far wall. High above it, was a small barred window. To the left, a long wooden, well-worn, beech wood bed stood, with an oblong wooden box at one end, which had been shaped to form the pillow. I stayed there for two days as the case was heard in the court above. Three times a day, food was dished out on white, enamelled trays. The same menu appeared for each meal, a sort of corned beef pie, with cold potatoes. A large brown enamelled mug of stewed tea accompanied each meal. By mid-afternoon on the second day, we were hauled up for sentencing. The Judge, addressed us one by one. Barry Johnson was found guilty, and sentenced to five years. His brother Pete, to eighteen months, and Earnie to twelve months, as the rest of us had already served some time behind bars on remand, we were allowed home. I was further sentenced to two years conditional discharge and fined thirty pounds, with twenty pounds costs. A total of fifty pounds, a fortune for a family such as mine. I can remember my Mum and Dad cursing more than once, when they sent the five-pound postal orders to the court offices week after week.
At the end of the case, the Judge looked straight at me and suggested that I would be better advised to use my ‘escape and evasion’ skills in the Forces. He also commented on my poor school history and the negative report given by the Headmaster, Mr Powell.
It was 1969 I was fifteen and due to leave school and enter the world of the employed in a couple of weeks.
…
Mrs Birch walked into the Headmaster’s study. She had the most wonderful figure accentuated by a short skirt, black high heels, and dark stockings. I could hear the conversation quite clearly.
“ He’s a bright boy, but he’s missed so much school that he can’t keep up. Is there nothing we can do?” She searched the Head’s face for an answer, but there was none. “He can’t even read.” She continued.
“My hands are tied.” Mr Powell’s deep authoritative tones rang out, “He leaves next year. Bob Stoddard found him wondering around Bentilee, saw his parents and threatened them with Court if they didn’t ensure his attendance. Since then, his father’s delivered him here every day. The parents are coming up with their part of the deal, it’s up to us to do our part. You’re his form teacher, is there any subject he’s good at?”
“Not that I know, he’s just so far behind.”
The conversation paired away as Mr Vernon Goodwin, the science teacher, clicked his way towards me, the metal tips of his highly polished, brown brogue’s heels filling the empty corridor
“Ah, Master Kenneth John Griffiths, long time no see. In trouble again eh?” He asked.
“No!” I said defensively, “They don’t know where to put me.”
“Really.” He said as he turned into the study. As Deputy Head he didn’t bother announcing his arrival. His huge body filled the doorway, looking up I could see his big, purple, face, light up as he acknowledged his colleagues.
“Young Griffiths,” he said cutting straight across any further conversation,
“ I could do with some help in the science lab’s greenhouse, I’ll have him there.”
“ The problem is we can’t just put him there without at least trying to do something about his education.” Mr Powell tapped his desk in thought.
“ Having said this I don’t see any alternative.”
“Good,” Goodwin turned, grabbing me by the arm as he went. “ I’ll have a word with Mrs Bache, she might be able to give him some extra English.” He said over his shoulder as we walked away.
On the few occasions I did attend school, (before being caught by Stoddard), Mr Goodwin and Mrs Bache, were the only teachers who had taken a genuine interest in me. They always encouraged me to attend and would spend time talking about my life on the estate. For the next week, I worked in the Greenhouse, taking cuttings from Fire Nettles and African Violets and then planting them in scores of tiny black pots. True to his word, Goodwin had spoken to Mrs Bache. In one of her breaks, she came to the greenhouse to see me. I saw her approaching, and for the first time realised that, she was quite lovely. She was in her late forty’s about five foot four with shoulder length light brown hair. She had a big hooked nose, but it suited her face and didn’t detract from her sparkling dark eyes and genuine smile.
“Morning Kenneth,” she said as she slid the door open, “my, it’s hot in here, shall we go out side?”
I shrugged my shoulders, sort of hard like as if the heat didn’t bother me,
“Yeah, if you like.” I said
“I want to try and sort out some English lessons for you.” she said as I followed her out. “Don’t look so gloomy, it’s important for you. You really do need to be able to read and write, besides, I’ll make it interesting for you, ok?”
I shrugged my shoulders and made a kind of murmur sound as I nodded.
“Good, come to the library at lunch time.” She ordered, as she walked away.
Sure enough seconds after the lunch bell sounded I walked into the school library, a room I’d visited once in four years and that was during the introduction to the school when I arrived from the Juniors. Mrs Bache had just finished a lesson and was talking to one of her pupils as I arrived. She caught my eye straight away and smiled warmly. I stood awkwardly, trying to find something to look at. She finished her conversation, her pupil left and she called me to her.
“What’s this?” she said as she pointed to a newspaper spread out in front of her.
“A paper.” I said.
“Yes, but what news paper?”
“Dunno,” I said, feeling a little awkward.
“ Well, this is the Daily Mail,” she turned to a wooden stand and pulled off several other newspapers. “This is the Telegraph, The Mirror, The Times, and this is the Evening Sentinel, our local paper, have you seen this before?”
“Yeah, ‘cause I have, we have that at home.”
“Can you tell me what this is about?” She pointed at the Headlines.
I struggled, “err, no, no!”
“Well this is about the Pottery Industry, it’s saying that people will be losing their jobs if the strikes continue. What about this?” She pointed to the headlines in the Daily Mirror.
“Dunno”.
“Well this is telling us that trouble is escalating in Northern Ireland and troops may have to be sent in.”
“So?” I was starting to loose the plot.
“So, this is news. You don’t have to read books if you don’t want to, but you have to know what’s happening around you, being able to read lets you know what’s happening.” She pointed to a seat next to her, “sit here.”
I obeyed.
Week after week I sat at that table whilst Mrs Bache read to me from newspapers and comics like the Dandy, Beano and Hotspur. I struggled terribly to try to grasp the idea of reading, I’d see a simple word like ‘cried’, she’d tell me what it was and I’d be able to read it time after time, until the script changed, then I was lost. In fact, I wasn’t reading at all I was merely memorising shapes.
Working in the greenhouse and meeting Mrs Bache at lunch times suited me. I was doing fine, but it all stopped in October 1968…
The gang were well respected on the estate, and my nights were filled with petty crime and exciting adventures which honed my delinquent skills. At fifteen I could hide anywhere, break into shops and cars without leaving any trace, and fight with the best of them. At the time, my best mate was Peter Humphries, ‘Pump’. He was one of the regular gang and a good looking guy, medium build, dark brown long hair, deep blue eyes and a cocky smile that curled the left side of his lips more than the right. No matter what the problem, Pump had a joke to tell, totally the opposite of his brother Barry. Barry was much older, a hard man, and a very violent criminal . He was thin, sharp featured and always wore dark blue Levi denims. When he wasn’t in prison, or on the take, he would hang around with us.
One dark night, the gang, at Barry’s suggestion, made their way across the fields to the back of the privately owned houses, bordering Hanley High School. Through the iron school railings we could see one particular house which had a workshop at the bottom of the garden and a store of building and plumbing materials, next to a large pile of scrap metal. Within seconds of our arrival I had scaled the school fence and was passing lengths of lead pipe through to the lads. Barry had gone onto the house with two others. Ten minutes later, Earnie Williams, a well built long haired gang member and a close friend shouted a warning to me letting me know that a man and his dog had arrived on the scene. In the darkness, I could see their shadow. It was a big dog! The gang turned and began their escape. I scaled the fence in one, landing awkwardly next to a large, adult, male, figure hiding in the shadows. He made a grab for me and I hit him as hard as I could full in the face. He reeled back landing in a clump of gorse and blackberry bushes, which had been planted, by the school to stop intruders. Earnie, who had waited for me, realising the danger, hit the figure again, as he untangled himself from the prickly bush. Despite this blow, the man made a second grab for me. Once again Earnie leapt to my defence, took a hold of the man and fell with him wrestling to the floor, Earnie soon struggled free and flung the body back into the prickly bushes. We both ran, following the distant fading shadows of our gang. Other larger figures, in pursuit of them, lay between us. I made my way to a small bridge over the stream, between the school and the rough ground leading to the estate. I lay, half in the cold water, covered by the deep shadows of the tall waterside plants, my panting, being masked by the sound of running water. Earnie lay quietly next to me. The adult’s search was intense, the dark figures emerging as uniformed police. We lay still and undetected for a very long time, eventually leaving the fields and joining up with the gang outside the Beverley pub, deep in the estate. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, each telling his story of the ‘great escape’. Not all the gang were present. No one knew who had been caught, and who had slipped away. In the debate, our defences were down. Un-noticed, several police cars swooped in spewing out uniformed officers in every direction. They grabbed anyone they could. I got caught, my arm was forced up my back and I was marched towards a waiting police ‘panda’ car. I struggled, placing my free hand on the roof in an effort to resist the arrest. The officer was not amused and tried to force me into the back seat. A second officer came to assist. He grabbed my hair, pulled it back hard, and with a sudden push, forced my forehead onto the doorframe. The pain made me released my grip and I fell into the rear of the car, piling into the handcuffed figure of Barry. The door shut and the two officers climbed in the front, the driver, flicked the switches for the blue light and siren as we sped away from the melee. As the journey progressed, I protested my innocence. At the junction of Twigg Street and Dividy Road, the car came to a halt. The interior light came on and I saw the bleeding and swollen face of PC Johnson. The scratches from the gorse and blackberry bushes covered the whole of his face and hands. He looked at me intensely for some time before announcing that he couldn’t recognise me. Barry butted in convincingly, stating that I wasn’t one of the gang. Without anymore debate, the door opened and I was dumped on the roadside. I watched in amazement as the car pulled away. I walked back through the estate lowering my head as a fleet of police cars passed by, ferrying the gang to Hanley police station. I made my way home, slipping into my bedroom un-noticed by my parents who were watching one of their favourite TV programmes. Two hours later the clock struck midnight. I sat on the edge of my bed still fully clothed looking out to the street below expecting the arrival of the police at any moment. Another hour passed, before I saw a black police Thames Trader van, known as a ‘Black Mariah’ pull up outside my house. Two heavily built, uniformed officers, walked from the vehicle. My heart was in my mouth as they hammered on the door. The landing light went on. I could hear my father heading from his bedroom down stairs to the front door. There was a muffled exchange, followed by the opening of my bedroom door. My dad’s powerfully built frame filled the opening. I went downstairs with him and walked into a barrage of questions from the two officers.
“One of the others told us you were there” a plump, sweaty, sergeant said.
‘So much for mates.’ I thought.
My mother, dressed in a heavy, pink, candlewick, dressing gown joined the scene, at the point where I was cautioned and arrested. She broke down in tears, her distress lighting my father’s short fuse.
“Look what you’ve done to your mother,” he bawled.
Before the police could stop him he crossed the room and hit me, full in the face with his massive fist. The blow sent me over the settee. Hurt and humiliated I came up fighting, only to be hit again. The sergeant and my mother grabbed Dad, the other officer restrained me, but not before I managed to kick my father hard on the knee.
On the way to the Mariah, my father scanned the neighbour’s houses for signs of life. “Thank God none of the neighbours are up,” he said and went on to comment about what his work mates would say if they ever found out.
As the words left his mouth the Mariah’s door opened and he came face to face with Dave Atkins’ father, one of his workmates. I found this very amusing but kept it to myself, as I sat next to Dave. In the vehicle there were four other gang members accompanied by their fathers. We knew better than to discuss anything and sat in total silence until we arrived at the police station.
Once there, we were put into the custody area adjacent to the cells. Other members of the gang were already going through the process of questioning, having the charges put to them and then having their fingerprints and photographs taken. I sat quietly at the side of my Dad. He in turn sat next to Diane Day. A year younger than me, she had cracking tits, striking good looks and was wearing a red micro-mini skirt, white thigh length boots and a very low cut pink and chocolate brown hoop tank top. She was there with her father and brother Michael, a trusted gang member. When they moved my father asked me if the ‘tart’ he’d been sitting next too had been on the job with us.
“No” I said defensively. I was going to say more but decided not to. Something told me that this was not the time to tell him she was my girlfriend.
Eventually, I was charged with theft and assault, although they didn’t really have the evidence for the assault. Luckily, I wasn’t identified as the first person that, assaulted PC Johnson. Unfortunately, Earnie was and eventually served a year at Werrington Detention Centre. True to the unsaid gang lore, he never told anyone about my true involvement. Following the charges, I, along with others, spent time in custody awaiting the full court hearing. The case was first heard at the local Magistrate’s Court and adjourned on two occasions. At the second appearance my solicitor applied for my release on bail. This was agreed as the case was to be heard at Stoke on Trent Crown Court and that there would be a long delay before getting to trial. The reason for the delay, was down to Barry, who, having left us in the garden, had burgled the house and seriously assaulted the owner and a police officer. Despite the evidence, he pleaded not guilty, forcing us all to a trail at the Crown Court. Months later, we were given a date and duly attended for the trial. On arrival at the court, I was met by a police officer and put back into custody to await my turn before the Judge. Eventually, the charges were put to me and I pleaded guilty to the theft and not guilty to the assault along with everyone else, other than Barry of course. Pleas entered, we all stood side by side in a large, oak, defendant’s box, flanked by prison and police officers. I looked around, the Court, held in the Old Town Hall, was huge and overbearing. The whole room was a mass of creaking carved oak, and red leather covered benches. Stone steps led from the defendant’s box to the cells below. The judge sat facing us in wig and gown with a broad red sash draped from his left shoulder to his right waist. He was completely dwarfed by his enormous chair, which stood high in the centre of the bench. Below him sat his clerk, dressed in a black court robe. Facing the two of them sat a row of black robed, barristers, each sporting a white horse-hair wig. Behind them sat a row of dark suited solicitors. The prosecution sat on the left, the defence on the right. The whole thing, reminded me of a scene from one of the Dickens’ novels I’d seen televised on Sunday afternoons. That thought soon changed, as I glanced behind and above me and caught sight of our families and spectators. In the middle of them, only four or five feet away, sat my Dad, although at the time, it felt as though he was a thousand miles away.
Following our pleas, those of us who had pleaded guilty, were led down the stone stairs to the cold cells below. As I turned to leave the Court, I saw my Dad. He was close to tears. He managed a friendly wink of his eye, which made me feel a lot better. The cells, were as Dickensian as the Court room scene. Each cell was simply, a concrete floor surrounded by heavy, black, steel bars. A single toilet stood obviously in the centre of the far wall. High above it, was a small barred window. To the left, a long wooden, well-worn, beech wood bed stood, with an oblong wooden box at one end, which had been shaped to form the pillow. I stayed there for two days as the case was heard in the court above. Three times a day, food was dished out on white, enamelled trays. The same menu appeared for each meal, a sort of corned beef pie, with cold potatoes. A large brown enamelled mug of stewed tea accompanied each meal. By mid-afternoon on the second day, we were hauled up for sentencing. The Judge, addressed us one by one. Barry Johnson was found guilty, and sentenced to five years. His brother Pete, to eighteen months, and Earnie to twelve months, as the rest of us had already served some time behind bars on remand, we were allowed home. I was further sentenced to two years conditional discharge and fined thirty pounds, with twenty pounds costs. A total of fifty pounds, a fortune for a family such as mine. I can remember my Mum and Dad cursing more than once, when they sent the five-pound postal orders to the court offices week after week.
At the end of the case, the Judge looked straight at me and suggested that I would be better advised to use my ‘escape and evasion’ skills in the Forces. He also commented on my poor school history and the negative report given by the Headmaster, Mr Powell.
It was 1969 I was fifteen and due to leave school and enter the world of the employed in a couple of weeks.
…
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