Private Detective Author

What to do in a Hijacking

2011-09-05T02:34:00.000-07:00

Nowadays terrorists may strike almost anywhere, and there is a chance that you might be subjected to some form of terrorist attack. The events of September 11 2001 – terrible though they were- formed a highly successful terrorist plan. It woke the world up to the power of terrorism and the terrorists’ total disregard for innocent people.

Taking control of a vehicle to use as a weapon of destruction is not, strictly speaking, hijacking. Hijacking assumes that the terrorist have demands, and have chosen a passenger vehicle to use hostages as a tool of negotiation to either attain those demands or gain publicity for them. In a 9/11-style attack, you can do no better than the passengers of United Airlines Flight 93, and try your best to overpower the terrorists.

World governments advocate that they will not give in to hijackers’ demands. This is not strictly true as many have paid ransoms to hijackers not least to the Somalia Pirates albeit the actual negotiations and handovers have been organised by the ship’s insurance companies using marine security organisations as regularly documented in the Marine Security Review.

In any event, hijacked passengers and crews do undergo long periods of high stress often resulting in eventual release, but occasionally death. Obviously, survival in these situations is a very tuff challenge, but not impossible. In all survival situations the basic rules are the same, and you will benefit from knowledge, confidence, physical condition, a sense of humour and the will to survive. The usual survival priorities of protection, location, water and food still apply. Your best personal approach is to adopt as low a profile as possible – Protection, be constantly aware of your surroundings – Location, keep yourself hydrated, by drinking water, not alcohol – Water, and eat whenever it is possible – Food.

Blend In.

When hijacked, it is vital to assess the hijackers at the outset, and ascertain their potential to carry out their task, their political and religious beliefs, their aims, even the actual group they belong to. Generally, you will be told some of these things early on. If your political, religious beliefs or nationality do not conflict with the hijackers’, your chances of surviving are slightly higher than those of someone to whom this does not apply. If someone is executed to prove a point, the hijackers are more likely to pick someone they dislike. If you are unlucky enough to simply be from the wrong place, avoid attracting attention, become the grey-person the person that no-one really notices.

Extremes.

Despite all your efforts, hijackers may become violent towards you. At this stage, there is very little you can do. If you are absolutely sure you can overpower the terrorist – or you are certain that they are about to take your life – then fight. Otherwise, resistance will only make the situation worse, so do your best to take it. Show pain naturally, when it hurts: showing pain too early can make the aggressor impatient and more violent; trying to show how ‘tough’ you are will just get you beaten to death.

Gaining the respect of your captors through arrogant resistance only happens in movies. If you decide to risk game playing, try to build a relationship; if you can get a good rapport, it often leads to survival. If not, of course, you are liable to become the first victim.

Your bearing will affect the way you are treated. Some people have a ‘military style’ about them; they walk very upright, with an air of authority. Avoid this at all costs, as the terrorists, who will be used to the police and military, will assume you are a soldier or undercover operator and quickly eliminate you. On the other hand, slouching and looking unconcerned will mark you out as an arrogant troublemaker. Being aware of your body language and adjusting it accordingly is a very important skill that you should think about and practice before you need it in a real life emergency.

Communicating.

Communication, or the lack of it, is a difficult area. Your non-verbal communication will begin the process. It is hard to get the balance right; showing hate is as provocative as showing compassion in some situations. Try to look attentive, obedient. Inevitably, any communication will single you out and defeat the object of keeping a low profile.

If you have to communicate avoid deep eye-to-eye contact, but do not avoid eye contact altogether, as this is antagonistic. Blatantly looking away from your aggressor is as much an act of defiance as staring.

Rescue.

The decision to use military force to effect a rescue is only ever made after all other efforts have failed, when the lives of the hostages are seriously at risk. The country you are in may not have a properly trained, professional, competent, ant-terrorist force. Specialists may have to be brought in for support and advice as the crisis unfolds. Information gathered by the authorities needs to be correlated and assessed and this takes time.

Even an experienced anti-terrorist team has its limitations. The aircraft may have been flown through restricted airspace, and the observers’ surveillance craft not allowed to follow, although it will still be tracked. If the plane is flying from place to place, then the team may monitor its fuel consumption and plan an assault when the plane has to refuel at the next stop. Available refuelling facilities can be identified in advance and an assault planned.

Release.

As a goodwill gesture, hijackers often release some hostages. If you are so lucky, the authorities will need to interview you as soon as possible to get a better idea of the threat. Whilst still a hostage, make mental notes of events and descriptions of the terrorists, it will help if you can use known images as identity markers for example: look-a-likes, he looks like John Lennon etc. Take note of the weapons in use and the armed terrorist locations. If you are not released early, your chances of being involved in some form of armed conflict will have increased. Most assaults begin with stun grenades; these cause a shock wave that affects the balance and co-ordination. Do not run, there is likely to be a hail of bullets and a lot of confusion moments after the assault begins, so standing up exposes you, and the rescuers have enough to do without you popping up and down. The best option is to drop to the floor with your hands outstretched showing that you are unarmed and not in a position to trigger an explosion. If possible stay in this position until you are ordered to move- hopefully by a friendly force. If you have to move because of fire or other hazard stay low, and if possible, evacuate the aircraft. Once outside, stay down and get clear of the aircraft if you can, remember to keep your empty hands in full view, do not carry anything. If you are not sure where to go, lie down and stay in position until you are told to move.

Survivor’s Guilt.

If you survive a hijacking, you may have stood by whilst others were executed, even possibly because you kept a low profile. This can bring intense – but inappropriate – guilt. You have survived an encounter with people who have no scruples about killing, and you are not ever responsible for the actions of others.

Business Leaders Failure to Protect

2011-08-21T04:47:00.000-07:00

More than 50% of Business Leaders Fail to Plan for Disaster!

The growth of a successful business is rarely rapid, but its demise may well be.

According to statistics supplied by the Business Continuity Institute more than 40% of businesses do not recover following a terrorist attack or, I suspect, civil riots. In fact, the demise of the business could be overnight!

So why is it that, more than 53% of businesses have failed to put together a Business Continuity Plan? Is it that the business leaders are complacent, inept perhaps? I’ve had a number of conversations with CEO’s and Managing Directors who have volunteered that their recovery plan is to work from home on their laptop, keeping contact with other business colleagues who are likewise working from home, until they can re-group.

‘Expecting the Unexpected Business continuity in an uncertain world ‘ a booklet published by the UK’s National Counter Terrorism Security Office, London First and the Business Continuity Institute as far back as 2003 defined business continuity management as:

‘A holistic management process that identifies potential impacts that threaten an organisation and provides a framework for building resilience with the capability for an effective response that safeguards the interests of its key stakeholders, reputation, brand and value-creating activities.’

Laptop – Home….I think not.

Having a robust, proven business continuity plan is absolutely fundamental to a professional, well run organisation. Size has no part to play in this, big or small, there is no excuse for not expecting the unexpected. The aims and objectives of the plan should be hammered out and agreed at the outset and everyone within the organisation should not only know what to expect but be encouraged to actively contribute to the plan. The fact that you have taken the time to prepare for recovery is a factor that should be commonly known and shown. This is important for two main reasons. Firstly, because in the search for recognition and support, in these competitive times, potential investors, customers and service/product users will want to know that the business is sustainable and can continue to perform through adversity. Secondly, each member of the organisation will have his or her own ‘hidden’ concerns and worries. They need to feel that their overall contribution to the business success is seen as worthwhile and that they will continue to have a job, a wage and continuity of employment. That’s the responsibility of quality business leaders, there’s nothing worse than dissent and lack of confidence in a workforce and in uncertain times it is the leadership that has to remain steadfast, laptops at home is not steadfast leadership.

Critical Path Planning.

Planning is a relatively simple process, initially taking into consideration three main areas, People, Physical Assets and Systems. This in mind, the start can be an uncomplicated affair, a pencil, piece of paper and quiet corner is all that is needed. Pause for a while, and let your mind think about the possible outcomes if you do not have a plan. You could lose your business position as your competitors move in on your customers, taking advantage of your inability to perform leading to a loss of reputation, not to mention the effect on your staff and loss of expertise, also, possibly to your competitors as your workforce migrates to those who did have a plan. Then there is the probable health and safety claims and the inevitable increase in insurance policies, for the future, if there is a future.

Having realised the effect of not having a plan you now need to begin the process of putting one together. This is universally recognised as a five point checklist beginning with, Analysis of the Business, and secondly Assessing the Risk both of these you will know better than anyone else. Developing your strategy is the third stage and here you could bring in outsiders with relevant experience. That experience may well be worth the investment as the fourth and probably most crucial stage is the actual Development of the Plan. Finally, you should rehearse your plan to ensure that it is in fact workable. For example, let us say that your plan includes using a ‘Hot Site’ agreement. This is office space with equipment usually provided by specialist continuity companies such as Internet Central based at Keele University in the UK. They advocate that they will have desks and facilities available within four hours of the need arising. It is no use waiting for the disaster to happen and then expecting your plan to work. You need to test and experience the plan in the cold light of day without the trauma. Once tested you may well have to go back to the paper and pencil stage and re-think your plan. But that is certainly better than it going wrong at a critical moment.

This is a brief article by way of introducing you, the reader, to the concept of:

Proper Planning Preventing Poor Performance.

If you need any further information please do contact the author.

Riots take out Businesses

2011-08-09T02:54:00.000-07:00

Proper Planing Prevents Poor Performance!

Statistics show that 40% of businesses do not recover following civil riots and terrorist attacks.

Most businesses in the do not have a plan in place to allow them to carry on with their business following a disaster. Today in Cities around the World people will be turning up for work only to find that they have no building to work from. Doctors, health professionals, social workers, solicitors and many other much needed services will be unable to help decent, innocent people to come to terms with the day-to-day problems they encounter.

Throughout my adult life I have been involved at grass-routes level in riots as a soldier and special police officer, spent years working as a social worker with delinquent and disturbed adolescents and been on the streets as an undercover operator gathering evidence for anti-social behaviour.

There’s nothing new in rioting and civil unrest, it’s all happened before; the difference is the speed of communication and the willingness of individuals to gang-up and cause mayhem.

To believe that rioting helps to move society forward is nothing more than folly, I fail to see any gain. Destroying the very fabric of a society does nothing to help those most needing help. If there is a need for political change, then do it in a constructive way not destructive.

Businesses need to learn a lesson and prepare properly for continuity of business following a disaster. Signing up for a ‘Hot Site Office’ where there are desks and equipment in place usually within 4 hours is the first step to not becoming one of the 40%.

Phone Hacker or Intelligence Gatherer? The Private Investigator

2011-07-17T00:18:00.000-07:00

The Private Investigator has always been portrayed in the cinema as a charismatic dark, sometimes sinister figure and in the media as a 16 year old cyberpunk cracking foreign intelligence codes and now, of course, as a criminally minded phone hacker.

Many see PI’s as a civilian spy, a one-man band trying to make a meagre living from day-to-day routine enquiries waiting in anticipation of the ‘big job’.

So what exactly is a private investigator? The ex-police officer serving papers from the court in divorce proceedings? The retired person whose sense of curiosity and justice stirs them into action? Or the slick, quick, industrial-espionage specialist who continually tries to foil and outwit unscrupulous business people who are bent on financial and political power? Or the PI working for them to bring power by information at any price?

The truth of it is that all of the above and many other definitions fit into the world of the modern day Sherlock Holmes. The type of work carried out by investigators is as diverse as the people who take up the profession. As well as the usual, widely accepted and well-known matrimonial and divorce work, the modern investigator can be called upon to act as a professional witness, involved in gathering evidence to support legal applications put before the court. Sometimes the PI will be called upon to work in criminal investigations to help prove a theft or some other crime, and to gather evidence to be given to the police as part of a court case being presented before a judge or passed to a journalist to expose a wrong-doing. On the other hand, the PI may have to work for the defence of a suspected criminal, meticulously sifting through the evidence and challenging any inconsistencies or locating and interviewing possible defence witnesses.

As a Private Investigator I have been called upon to carry out investigations to locate and prove that firms or individuals are manufacturing or supplying goods without the license-holder’s consent. Retail and manufacturing companies have used the skills I learned as a soldier to work undercover or to carry out covert surveillance, gathering information to determine how their employees operate out of site of management, to identify individuals or teams involved in theft, using company equipment without consent or selling intellectual intelligence and testing the company’s security and systems. I have been deployed overseas working undercover to expose Letter-of-Credit fraud, child abduction and protection. I’ve lived in attics, under garden sheds, in disused properties, even in drains gathering video evidence to show that a claimant – although saying that he/she is unable to work – is in fact fit and healthy. I’ve met with Special Branch and handed information over to uncover future terrorists leaving the UK for training abroad.

You would be surprised at some of the trouble-shooting tasks investigators get involved in. The following is one such problem I was asked to solve

The Background:

A world financier should have arrived for a meeting in Dubai, but didn't show. Eleven million pounds sterling was also missing. His life and work partner had information that suggested that the financier was in his hometown of Beirut and probably being kept there by his family who were members of a well-known terrorist group.

The Task:

1. To locate the exact whereabouts of the financier.
2. To make contact with him.
3. To assist him to escape from the Country if he wished to.
4. To deliver him to a safe environment and ensure that he would be kept safe.
5. To locate the eleven million – believed to have been given to the terrorists for the purchase of arms.

Did I sort it?

Professional investigators have a code of confidentiality!

The Psychology of Self Defence

2011-06-25T01:13:00.000-07:00

Physical violence and aggression is not someone else’s problem it can and does affect all of us. The perpetrators of these types of crimes against the person are indiscriminate in their selection of targets. The young, the old, male, female, healthy, disabled, black, white they’re all the same to the person who chooses violence to gain control and power over others.

We all have a right to enjoy our lives in freedom, free from oppression. Feeling and being safe from violence and aggression is a fundamental need for us to lead a full and enjoyable life. The problem is not everyone adheres to these principles and some take great pleasure in stripping others of these basic rights. Everyday of our lives there is the potential for us to meet and have to deal with violence and aggression. For the most part we manage to deal with this by diffusing the situation. This we do by using our communication skills to navigate through the aggressor’s mind until we meet his/her social conscience, (everyone has one it’s just that some are very distorted and often shaped by the person’s own early violent life events). Once we find the aggressor’s switch our communication skills can either make the matter worse or work to turn the aggression off or at least tone it down enough to move the situation away from a violent act. All things being equal we achieve this by self-confidence. If we show a lack of confidence in our negotiations then we risk giving the aggressor a signal of our uncertainty and vulnerability. Once this happens the real negotiation is really one sided, his! Whereas if we can continue to show confidence we can often avoid physical confrontation. Having good communication skills often moves the interaction from a physical confrontation to a verbal settlement.

When the talking stops, or when you are stopped from talking you may then have to resort to violence. Unfortunately in life you can’t avoid man, the aggressor, the hunter, and very often the hunter of man! Because of this there are times when you have to fight back.

In the daily fight for survival you may well be confronted by an aggressive and violent person who is intent on causing you damage or even killing you. Physical violence isn't pleasant but neither is it un-stoppable. As with all aspects of personal safety and survival much depends on your ability to quickly change the way you think and deal with the situation. Generally the fear of an attack is often greater than the attack itself. Once you have made the decision to fight, or have had the decision forced upon you, you must be absolutely determined to win and that means being as ruthless as you can be. Begin now to remove the sporting mentality. Aim to stop the aggressor and give him no mercy at all. It sounds extreme, I know, but if someone is willing to act violently towards you, you must conquer your own feelings of compassion and your distaste of violence. When you fight, fight for your life with all your inner strength. Be absolutely resolute that when you are faced with having to defend yourself or someone else against the possibility of an attack or an actual attack then you will treat it as an attempt to take a life and that means that you have to fight harder than the attacker. Once the action starts refuse to accept defeat work hard to achieve victory. Accept no rules in your combat, revert to absolute brutality you are dealing with a life-threatening situation and as such there is no place for scruples. The second you hesitate the aggressor will take the initiative and that is very likely to result in your demise.

One of the problems with the average law abiding person is that they fear the consequence of this type of action. Throughout their lives they have been taught to respect the law and respect other people. That’s all well and good if you are dealing with a compassionate, normal thinking decent individual. But, for anyone to use extreme violence then they clearly do not fit into this category. And therefore they don’t deserve any mercy.

If you are confronted with violence you do have the right to defend yourself against an attack as long as you can demonstrate that you used reasonable force. And of course, it is reasonable to stop someone from killing you by killing them first!

Meeting aggression and violence with aggression and violence is not something that comes easy to most people. As well as the physical effect of having to fighting for your life and beating your opponent there is the psychological effect. In most cases this damage goes on long after the body has repaired. Console yourself with the thought that you would have not resorted to the crudeness of violence if the aggressor had not forced you into it. Post trauma stress is a well-known condition and there are excellent counselling courses available if you think you need some support afterwards.

The real test is this: if you can put your hand on your heart and swear that you acted in self-defence and that you did what you had to do to stop yourself and/or those around you from getting hurt or the loss of life then you have nothing to feel guilty about.

Why?

2011-05-05T06:50:00.000-07:00

The sun was setting over the hills behind my position. Turf Lodge Estate lay in the shadows shrouded in a golden grey hue, which hid its deprivation. I lay huddled against the wall of sandbags; an uneasy feeling crept over me as the night took hold. The quiet of the observation post added to my apprehension…
Because of its unique location high on the outskirts of Belfast the security forces had long used the electricity sub station for covert observations. The winding road, which entered the estate from the rich countryside, ran just a few yards from the main gate and was a favourite entry and exit point for terrorists.
A section of infantry had set up a vehicle checkpoint around the first bend, out of sight of the estate’s prying eyes earlier in the day. The quiet was disturbed as I heard them pack up and start their vehicles. Within minutes the sound of the engines faded. And a haunting quiet returned.
Instinctively, I searched the sky as my ears picked up the bop, bop, bop as the home made mortars left their drainpipe launchers. Mesmerised, I watched three bombs tumbled out of control towards us . The first hit the sub station perimeter wire and fell to the ground harmlessly. The other two cleared the fence; hit an area of loose pebbles and exploded. The orange flashes sucked the oxygen from my lungs. I threw myself flat onto the floor. The bombs packed with six-inch nails, sent steel and pebbles flying over my body. Jeff hadn’t moved quickly enough: the blast forced him into me. His blood and torn flesh oozed through my fingers as I pushed him off, and placed him into the recovery position. Nails were embedded in his back and legs; some had been forced under his skin, stretching it into grotesque shapes.
Seconds later, the quiet returned only the dust and smell of spent explosives remained to tell the tale. Jeff lay conscious, but without sound or movement. His eyes said it all, the shock showing deep in them.
The medics had been quick to respond. Jeff had been stabilised, and waved to the rest of us, as the doors of the armoured ambulance slammed shut.
I held that scene in my mind as his replacement arrived. Jock McCann was a tall lean man, whose dark bushy eyebrows met in the middle. In our elite unit we worked in small groups of four. Jeff gone, Jock’s presence put us back to strength.
I briefed the new arrival and made my way back to the observation post. Dave Bryant took up his position at the main gate. Jock stayed with the radio, and I lay watching the estate with Andy Hall close to hand. The night took hold. Once again, the quiet set in and the uneasy feeling returned. My senses heightened and I peered into the dimly lit streets, expecting something, but not knowing what. In the background I could hear raised voices. I strained to listen; it seemed that Jock and Dave were arguing. Before I could clarify my thoughts, instinctive reaction, forced me to the ground in response to a sudden sharp crack as a weapon discharged. A second shot rang out. The noise stopped as suddenly as it started. I heard the screams of someone in pain. My thoughts and gaze turned to the main gate and the road leading into the estate. I half expected to see another set of smoking drainpipe weaponry, but there was nothing to be seen. Puzzled, I moved towards the sound of the injured. Two more shots rang out, the bullets passing above my head. The thud as they hit the sandbags confirmed their high velocity. I ran and dived for cover, hiding between the massive electricity generators. By the time the third shot rang out, I’d realised that I was being targeted. I moved quickly dodging in and out of the machinery until I came to rest at the foot of a concrete pillar. I had a clear view of the main gates, which lay fifty foot in front of me. One of them was open the body of the injured man preventing it from swinging shut. He stopped screaming and lay motionless. The sound of his sobbing filled the gap between us. I couldn’t make out who was lying there. I wanted to shout to him, but feared giving my position away. I scanned the area. There’s no cover, what about there, no, not there, no cover, white stone chatter, very noisy, too much of it, silent so much silence every bloody where, no sobbing no movement, my movement; movement means signal, signal means give away position why? Why me? I shouldn’t be here, I should be back at home with my mum, eighteen only eighteen, a boy no man, oh shit, don’t go, stay, stay where you are, it’s safe here. Go you’ve got to go that’s why you’re here it’s what you do, how stupid, how silly, this can’t be true, can’t be right what’s right, other side of left, get your arse in gear Griff go mate go, go on. My fear wrestled with my conscience thought after thought ran through my mind. Suddenly, my training took over; I leapt up from my cover and hurled myself towards the gate. Nothing moved no shots rang out. I pulled the semi conscious figure towards me. Dave’s face was distorted with pain. I pulled his smock open. A trickle of blood ran down from a small hole in the side of his stomach. The smell of his involuntary bowel movement made me heave. I ripped his field dressing from his belt and forced the pad against the wound. I ran to the radio. Jock had gone. I called for assistance and took up a defensive position overlooking the estate. Peering into the dimly lit streets I could clearly make out the figure of Jock as he ran towards a known IRA safe house. Moments later a black taxi arrived and carried him away. Realising that he had defected, I rang off a volley of shots, but to no avail. I watched in disbelief as the taxi headed towards Belfast, slipping through the search light of the advancing helicopter, which, minutes later carried, Dave as he passed over Belfast and out of this life.

Hostage Survival

2011-05-02T03:13:00.000-07:00

Hostage Survival.
By
Kenn Griffiths.

Being kidnapped and kept as a hostage is a terrorist act that has been used the world over and continues to be used in an effort to get the authorities to succumb to the kidnapper’s demands. The problem is the authorities will not meet the demands. To do so would show weakness and prove to the terrorists that kidnapping works. Contrary to popular belief negotiations do go on and hostage negotiators work alongside the intelligence services to try to bring a peaceful solution without giving in to the demands. At the same time Special Forces seek and find teams are deployed to track down the whereabouts of the hostages and prepare for a rescue attempt.

Hostage situations vary and anyone one of us could be taken at any time. If it’s you, the fact that you have not been killed in the first place suggests that the kidnappers have some reason to keep you alive, for the time being at least. This fact is the key to your early survival. Because they have a reason to keep you alive they will hesitate before taking your life. From the second you are aware of your kidnap you should be looking for a way to escape. The longer you are held captive, the more difficult it is to escape. In the first moments of capture you will probably be in an area where there is an element of normality, so if you can effect your escape at this early stage the chances are that you can find salvation and help locally, however, once you are taken away from the area you will probably not know where you are or who you can trust if you do escape.

Once the kidnappers have detained you it is normal practice for them to restrain you by tying you up and gagging you. Even when this has been done there is the chance of a quick escape. The way you do this is to present parts of your body to be bound in such a way that the binding can be loosened afterwards. Present your hands in front of your body by keeping the heels of your hands together and slightly cupping them. At the same time keep your hands close to your body with your elbows pushed out. This action causes your wrists to part. Binding you in this position allows you to straighten your arms later, which will push your wrists together, loosening the bindings. Flattening your hands, palm to palm will further loosen them until you can wriggle free. If a mouth gag is being used push your chin on your chest and puff your cheeks out. If it is at all possible, keep your teeth tightly closed. These positions will again allow you to loosen your bindings when you draw your chin, open your teeth and stretch your neck to its full extent. If your hands are being tied behind your back present them thumb to thumb with your palms facing outwards and your arms slightly bent. Once again try to ensure that there is a good gap between your wrists. Turning your hands palm to palm and drawing them up your back will loosen the binding and allow you to slip out. Having loosened your bindings you may be in a position to surprise your captors by escaping from them when they are complacent. Running out of a building into a street full of local people will bring immediate attention to your problem. It would be unlikely that your kidnappers would dare to re-take you in full view of the general public.

If you have not had a chance to escape in the very early stages of your captivity the chances are that you will be moved from the initial kidnap site in the back of a vehicle, quite often this will be a car. If you have a mouth gag you will probably be made to lie in the well between the front and rear seats and covered over so that you cannot be seen. If you are not gagged you may be sat in the rear of the vehicle with a guard. In both cases think about escaping by loosening your bindings and quickly opening the door and jumping out as the vehicle moving. Clearly you would be foolish to attempt this if the vehicle is travelling at speed. But, in the middle of a city or town, the chances are that the vehicle will often have to slow down to compensate for other road users. An ideal time to jump is when the vehicle is pulling away from a set of traffic lights. Force the door open and throw yourself out of the near-side, making sure you don’t throw yourself under a passing vehicle. You will certainly suffer cuts and bruises but this will be much better than the problems you will encounter from becoming a hostage. Once the vehicle has left the city etc. it will probably be travelling at great speed and in areas where there are few people. If you miss the early opportunity to escape then the chances are that you will have to wait a very long time before you can spot another window of opportunity.

Surviving until the window of opportunity presents itself or you are released will be your priority. In the early stages hostages are often very confused and obviously have trouble coming to terms with their predicament. They are bewildered and feel exceptionally vulnerable. They obviously mistrust their captors and, in group hostage situations there are periods when there is a mistrust of ones self and colleagues. Keeping the mind positively active is a very important part of hostage survival. To allow the mind to dwell on negative thoughts will inevitable sap the will to survive. Never let the mind relax, keep it positively active. This is best accomplished by having a personal project. This may be building an imaginary lavish garden, a luxury home, a rocket, in fact anything that is productive. This doesn’t mean just thinking about the building etc. It means planning every minor detail, the materials needed, the human resources, the actual building of it, brick by brick, plant by plant. In the hostage situation the one thing that the captors cannot take away from you are your thoughts, the inner you. You must keep this part of you totally in your control at all times.

In isolation, with minimum human contact there is a feeling of hopelessness that you have to overcome. The only emotional support for you, is you! Living without affection of any kind can eat away at you and it is this that you must always guard against. Political hostages are often forced to make public statements, admitting to a crime against the state or its people, or denouncing a country, its people and/or its politics. Not agreeing with the views of your captors and not wanting to make any statements is in some ways accepted and so the isolation, tiredness and uncertainty are used to wear you down to a stage where you will say and do almost anything. The captors will try everything to domineer. But to completely domineer they have to break you. A way of accomplishing this is to threaten to take your life. Having the courage to accept that they may well kill you and being able to live with that thought without fear takes away the most powerful lever the captors have to force you to conform, to do as they say. Quite often when hostages get to this stage and have come to terms with the possibility of their death they have turned the tables on their captors. It can become a battle of wills. The captor determined to break the hostage, to rule not just the body but the mind as well. The hostage, accepting that there is little he can do to stop the punishments on his body, but resisting every attempt to capture his mind. In these situations the captor losses if he takes the hostage’s life. The result is that the captor will continue to try to break the hostage, making sure he does not die for fear of failure.

The chances are that you will be held in a building. Probably not far from a busy street or near to someone who can help you? You must constantly review the best action to take to survive your ordeal. You have to be sure that to escape is in your best interests. It may be the case that you are being held in quite decent surroundings and being treated properly. This may be because there are negotiations going on to secure your release. There certainly will be some action being taken to help you from outside agencies but only you can decide whether or not your life is at risk and that escape is a realistic possibility.

Having decided that your survival will depend on your escaping you should prepare and plan your escape if that is possible. If not you will have to play the waiting game until the opportunity arises. Your route out of the building may well include having to drop from a window, low roof or wall. Being able to drop and land properly will lessen the risk of re-capture due to injury. When faced with a high drop, look for the softest place to land, if you can try to cushion your fall with clothing, bedding etc. Where you can, ease yourself over the edge of the drop, making sure you are facing the building, keep one hand holding on until your arm is fully stretched. Look down and pick a safe spot to land. Whilst still holding on, place your free hand on the wall and push away from the as you let go. The push should be enough to keep you clear from hitting the building during the descent. It should also spin you a little so that you face away from the building. Keep looking at the spot you intend to land on. Keep you ankles and knees pressed together and your legs slightly bent at the knees. Push your chin onto your chest and keep your teeth together. Pull both of your hands up to the side of your head. Position yourself to land with the balls of the feet landing first. Do not land heels first. As soon as your feet hit the ground, force your knees to the side. This move combined with the forward force of your body will turn you in such a way that you will roll onto the floor, thereby spreading the impact. By doing this your body will gradually take the force of the landing and greatly reduce the chance of injury. Once you are safely on the ground make good your escape.
Tips to avoid becoming a hostage.
• Be aware that you could be a target and avoid bringing undue attention to yourself.
• If you are in a foreign country dress down and avoid any conflict or debate, especially on the subjects of politics, religion and race.
• Do not drive around alone, especially in a local hire car or a car showing foreign license plates.
• Only use approved Taxicabs.
• When you are on foot face oncoming traffic. This will lessen the risk of a car full of kidnappers coming up from behind you without you knowing, and taking you from behind.
• Change your daily routines regularly to make it difficult for anyone to plan your kidnapping.

REBELS SUPPLIED WITH LATEST EQUIPMENT

2011-04-02T02:37:00.000-07:00

Talk of NATO intervention resounds in the offices of Whitehall, sighs of relief fill the empty spaces. The worry of putting our forces up against the highly trained, highly motivated and now well equiped enemy has caused many a young staff officer to age quickly.

The latest intelligence reports show that the rebels have been supplied with the best of the best, equipment that would chill the blood of even the most experienced british soldier.

WAIT OUT part 17 UNDERCOVER SOLDIER

2011-02-19T02:23:00.000-08:00

By the time I arrived at Ashford it was late in the evening, the utter exhaustion, I felt from my tour in the province, was now compounded by the long, lonely trip to Kent.
Throughout my journey, no military personal had spoken to me. As, per my instruction, I hadn’t told anyone of my reason for travelling, or my ultimate destination. In keeping with the ‘brief’, the Intelligence Corps’ Duty Driver, said not a single word, other than to ask me at the train station whether or not I was bound for the Int’ HQ and to check my MOD 90 identity card.
His Land Rover came to a halt outside the admin block. I carried my two bags inside and was met by a small, fresh faced, staff sergeant, who asked me for my ID. I handed my, the MOD 90, over, which showed my photograph, along side my number, rank, and name. The Staff sergeant said nothing as he moved his pen down a long list of names, printed neatly, on white paper. He stopped at mine, and handed me a sealed brown envelope. I opened it and found a set of cards, with the number 16 printed on them. The sizes started from a small, ‘breast pocket’ size, in a plastic cover, and were graded, up to a large A4, sealed in a plastic cover.
The Staff Sergeant, gave me a welcome smile, and said.
“Remember, you are not to tell anyone your identity. If you recognise anyone here, you must ignore them, as they will surely ignore you.” He hesitated, letting his words sink in. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Staff.” I said.
“I am the only person here, who knows your identity. I am the only person who you can approach and discuss any problems with. Do you understand, number sixteen?” He emphasised the ‘number sixteen’ bit.
“Yes Staff.” I said as I stood to attention.
“There is no need to follow military protocol on this course. Address all instructors as Staff, regardless of their rank.”
Coming straight from Northern Ireland I was used to a more relaxed approach, but this was something which I felt uneasy with.
‘Staff’, handed my ID card back to me, as I followed him through a series of indistinct buildings. In the dark shadows it was difficult to work out the proper layout. All around the perimeter, at very regular intervals, were tall, lamp posts each adorned with an amber light, which picked out the coils of razor wire, perched on top of a ten foot, chain-link fence. I noted that there was an unusual amount of manual security. In the short walk, I picked out several armed, two-man patrols, made up of army and MOD police.

Eventually, we arrived at the accommodation block, a small, square, two-story building. Its flat roof had several weird aerials, which appeared very prominent against the orange background glow.
Staff, led the way inside, a blast of warm air impregnated with a familiar smell of floor polish, greeted us. We climbed a flight of stairs, which led to the second floor corridor. The lighting was a little subdued, yet I could see that the place was immaculately clean and openly spacious, a direct conflict to the cramped conditions of Bessbrook. Staff, opened the second door on the right, a bright light spread across the corridor, picking out a series of four numbers, printed on separate pieces of card and positioned in a square, on the door opposite. I walked in, taking account of the numbers on the open door. Bottom left, was the number sixteen. The room was as spacious as the corridor suggested. Positioned neatly in each corner stood a modern, wooden, single bed, already made, with white sheets turned back over a bright green counterpane. Grey, card, folders were attached to the bottom of the beds, each bearing a number from fourteen to seventeen. Sixteen, was bottom left. To the side, a brightly coloured, Formica and wood, combined, wardrobe, dressing table, and book shelf covered the wall, ending as a window started. This was more like the Officers Mess, than an ‘ordinary’ soldiers abode.
“You must parade at 7.00 a.m. in the lecture room downstairs in your working kit.” Staff said as he looked around the empty room. “The rest of the guys are probably over the NAAFI, they arrived at lunch time. Any questions?”
“No Staff.” I said, coming slightly to attention, but stopping myself short of him having to remind me of the rules.
“OK. Remember, you are not to disclose your true identity to anyone, likewise, you are not expected to pry into the identities of anyone you meet on the course. Goodnight.”
He pulled the door shut behind him, as he left the room.
‘All very civilised’, I thought as I unpacked my bags. By the time I’d finished it was 11 p.m. I climbed between the cool, clean, starched, sheets. My body was buzzing from the trauma of the last three months, and the long day of travelling.
Wind and rain hit the large widows, but I was comfortable and soon began to drift into sleep. I left one bedside light on, to welcome my returning room mates.
And return they did, just before midnight. Although fast asleep, I heard the door open sharply, I woke. The light from the corridor, shone into the room, as bright as Blackpool illuminations. The three men were talking loudly, their footwear smacking and squealing as they turned from the polish of the corridor floor, to the thin carpet of the room. They all entered in a huddle, the smell of beer breath, came in with them. It was obvious they hadn’t seen me, one of them threw a wet, cold, coat at my bed, which half covered me. For a moment, I thought I was back in the, shit conditions of Fallingbostle. I sat up, a tall guy, with black hair, who I guessed was in his late twenties, looked down at me, his round small face was wet and reddened, from the wind and rain. He grabbed his coat.
“I’m terribly sorry.” This was the accent of an officer. There was no mistaking it. The room fell silent for second. “David, number seventeen,” He said by way of introduction, as his hand extended.
“Griff.” I hesitated for a second, sixteen I answered as I stopped myself from carrying on with the normal ‘Sir, routine. I shook his hand, it was bony, and cold.
“Griff?” A Scot’s accent is unmistakable. This one came from a fresh faced, small, and very fit looking, twenty-seven year old, with sandy hair, and freckles.
There was no handshake, he sat on bed number fourteen, smiled, and said, “Griff’s ma name as well.”
I nodded, and smiled back.
“We’ll have to do something about that, can’t have two with the same name, very confusing.” David said as he hung his coat on a wooden hanger.
“And I’m Frank, number, fifteen.” Frank’s hand extended as he crossed the room. He spoke very quietly, I guessed form his accent that he was from Devon or Cornwall. He was shorter than the rest of us, about five foot nine, or ten. He had a mass of curly, brown hair, which was showing signs of greying. His hands were, small and stubby. Nevertheless, he had a very powerful grip.
Within ten minutes, the four of us were lying in our beds deep in conversation, each trying hard not to pry into another’s proper identity, or past experience. During the conversations, it became obvious that we were a very ‘mixed bag’. We talked until the early hours, only stopping to listen to the occasional door opening and shutting, and murmured conversations which spilled out, from other rooms, as men made their way to the latrines, and back. None of us knew how many others there were, but we guessed that if all the rooms in the block were full then there would be twenty-eight.
By 6 a.m., the four of us were up and in the washroom, the place was full of men, all trying to get to a sink. Some had to wait, no one entered into any conversations. By five to seven, I stood with the others from my room, and counted the heads, in the lecture room. We had guessed right, twenty-eight were present, all standing in groups of four, each man wearing his working dress, with his ‘selection’ number attached to it. No one wore a beret, rank, or any insignia which would indicate their ‘parent’ unit.
At exactly 7 a.m. the door opened and in stepped, two members of Staff. Looking at them it was obvious that these were very fit men. Both were wearing their working dress, neither had any badge of rank, although I could tell from the way they approached us that they did have rank, probably sergeants, I thought. Both were similar in build, and bearing, both had dark brown hair, which needed cutting.
“OK. I am Tony, your senior instructor.” He had an unusual accent, which I couldn’t recognise. “We will be taking you over to the main lecture theatre in a moment. There you will be addressed by the CO.” He stopped and looked to his mate.
“Good morning gentlemen, I am Alan.” I couldn’t work out his accent either. “When you’ve heard from the CO, you may decide that this, the Military Reconnaissance Force, is not for you. So be it. There is no disgrace in being able to admit that, either now, or at some future time. What I will say, is that if you feel you are not suited to the type of work we do, but that you continue with the training, just in case, you change your mind, you will be found out. We will know whether or not you are suited, probably before you know. Once again, I emphasis, there is no disgrace in not meeting the required grade.” His words sank in very effectively.
His mate took up where he left off. “We do not expect you to move around in a military fashion during selection, or continuation training. We will not be ‘beasting’ you to get you to work. You will be responsible for your own discipline, and your own work rate. If you are not reaching the grade, you will be sent back to your units without hesitation.” He paused for a moment, and scanned us all individually. “Do you understand, gentlemen?”
None of us knew how to respond, did we come to attention and shout ‘Yes Staff’? Were we expected to keep it low key, ‘Yeah OK mate’? In the end there was some who nodded, some who murmured ‘yes’, and some like me, who, smiled, nodded, said ‘yes’ and half came to attention.
When I say some, I, actually mean, me, and a thin pasty faced guy, wearing number five, who was standing in his group on the other side of the room. It was obvious from our response, and our immaculately pressed uniform, that neither of us had been around the forces, for very long.
Following the short introduction we were taken along a series of tight concrete paths, which wound their way across neatly cut grassed areas, until we arrived at a large, square, red bricked, building. A simple sign read, ‘LECTURE THEATRE’. I was surprised to see several other people disappearing inside as we approached. I was even more surprised to see around, one hundred and fifty, similarly clad, men and women, already sitting in the lecture theatre. Apprehension showed in every-ones eyes.
I sat down. To my front, a light oak lectern stood in the centre of a slightly raised stage. Subdued lighting, threatened to blacken the back drop of purple velvet curtains. As if by magic, a tall, elegant, male figure floated from down stage left, and took up a position behind the lectern. He turned to face us, as a spot light hit him. He was easily in his fifties, with striking white hair. His uniform was immaculate, the rank of a full colonel adorned his shoulders.
He cleared his throat, as though to gain attention, which he’d gained anyway.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice was as clear as a bell, “welcome to the Military Reconnaissance Force, training centre. I do not intend to go into the reasons for our insistence that you do not question anyone here, about their true identity. If you cannot understand the reasoning for yourselves, then I would suggest that you are in the wrong place.” He looked around the audience gaining eye contact with everyone. “ Many of you will not complete the selection process. That is not necessarily a reflection of your ability to perform your duties in your own units. We are looking for a very specific type of person, who is mentally and physically fit, self motivated, able to operate alone, or in a team, and moreover, be able to act and function as a civilian on the outside, but retain a disciplined military person on the inside.” He stopped, placed his hands on either side of the lectern, stretched his neck forward, and continued, quietly. “There is none of the usual ‘beasting’ that you would normally associate with the military here.” His voice softened. “You are expected to motivate yourself, if you do not, you will be sent back to your unit. Following selection, for those of you who get through, there is a lot of continuation training, once again, if you do not come up to our specific standards, you will not be allowed to continue.” He stood back, his voice returning to its clear tone. “You are aware of the ‘Official Secrets Act’, so I should not have to remind you that you must not disclose anything you see, hear, or learn, to anyone.” He smiled for the first time. “Good luck”. With that he walked off stage as quietly as he came on. A murmur of low voices filled the air as the audience swapped thoughts. The noise died quickly, as the theatre door swung open, a man and woman appeared, dressed in ‘civvy’ track-suits. All eyes met them. The woman looked at her watch, and then, at the sea of faces.
“You have fifteen minutes to get changed into your PT kit and assemble on the tarmac, outside this theatre.” She said.
The two of them calmly walked outside, as the whole audience tried to exit en-masse. Moments later I was running across the cut grass towards the block. Frank was a step or two behind me. By the time we arrived in our room, Gavin was already throwing his work dress off. Within a minute or so the three of us were climbing into our shorts, in unison. Within five minutes we left the room, bumping into David, who had just arrived from the theatre. He, obviously had no sense of urgency.
“Hurry up mate.” I said
“Oh, don’t worry, there’s plenty of time, besides, there’s no way they would expect over a hundred people to change and report in that time.”
The rest of us were not convinced as we sped away. Outside the theatre the two instructors were waiting, around them, a group was growing by the second. I stood with my room mates, for the first time I felt the cold and decided to do some stretching and warm up exercises.
I watched the staff as they looked at their watches, simultaneously. For thirty seconds or more they watched. Then without saying a word they started to jog away, like sheep, we followed. I looked back over my shoulder as the main pack, headed for the gate, a line of people, who were late, were sprinting after us. Some were still leaving their blocks as we headed away from the camp. David was no- where to be seen. A mile into the run, the instructors, picked the pace up, I could hear people all around me, puffing and panting as the pace increased. Another four miles went by and the pace was lifted again, the two instructors, hardly breaking into a sweat, ran into a large athletics arena, and onto the running track. Lap after lap we trailed behind, these two, super-fit, instructors. Ten minutes after we arrived an Army Bedford turned up full of would be ‘operators’, who couldn’t, or wouldn’t keep up. As the laps increased, so too did the ‘drop outs’. I found the going a bit tough, but couldn’t get my head around the poor level of fitness and commitment shown by so many. Twenty fast laps later, those remaining, were randomly paired off. I ended up with number seventy-five, a small, slightly plump, girl in her early twenties, with shoulder length brown hair, which was neatly tied in a pony-tail. Her face was bright red, and blotchy, a mixture of the hard run and the cold air, making their mark. We lined up, and were told to carry our partners and run one full lap, changing around for another. I was eleven stone, my partner around nine.
I looked her up and down, she did the same with me. Realising that her task was greater than mine, I made a quick suggestion, “ I’ll carry first, if you like I said.” She nodded, hardly able to speak, as she fought for breath, I threw her, ‘fireman’ style over my shoulder and set off. It was a real bastard, I was knackered, even before we started, now, as I approached the finish, I was absolutely fucked. I virtually stumbled across the line, and rolled my partner from my shoulders to the ground. Although she’d had a brief rest, I felt sure she wouldn’t be able to complete the task. I climbed on board and off she went. For the first ten metres or so, she struggled to maintain her balance and get me in as comfortable a position as possible, after that, it was sheer guts and determination. She took short, quick, steps and little by little she ferried me around, past several pairs, who had not managed the task, and were walking towards the waiting transport. Once over the finish, line, the carriers were told to jog on the spot, whilst those who had been carried had to run as fast as they could to the centre of the arena and back. This exercise, gave the carriers a bit of a rest, but still kept them active, and made those, who had rested in the carry, back up to speed. I ran as fast as I could, to the centre and back. My heart was pounding, my lungs aching, I was ready for a rest, but there was none. As soon as we all returned, the instructors jogged away, with us taking up the sheep mode once again. As we headed back to camp, one or two of the runners around me gave up and sat on the side of the road, waiting for the transport. Luckily, I was still in striking distance of the instructors, as we turned into the camp gates. The four tonner had caught us up, I looked inside as it passed by, I was amazed to see that it was absolutely packed. I noted that one or two of the ‘rejected’, were crying. They all looked thoroughly pissed off.
Back at the theatre, we halted, the instructors, who, thank fuck, were now sweating and looking as if they’d been for a run too, told us to get showered and changed into working dress and report back at the lecture theatre after lunch.
Back in the room, David’s bed had been stripped.
“He must ‘ave been RTU’d.” Jock Griff said, what we all thought.
“I don’t know about you,” Frank’s voice was slightly hoarse, “but, for a moment or two, I thought I might have been joining ‘im.”
“Who the fuck were the two instructors?” I asked. “They hardly had a sweat on.” I said without waiting for an answer.
“Dunno,” Frank replied, “one thing’s for sure, they don’t mess about ‘ere. If you can’t keep up your gone.”
“That’s for sure,” Jock Griff pointed out of the window as he spoke, “you seen that lot?”
We looked outside, and saw a long line of men and women, being handed their movement details and travel warrants by the Chief Clerk. By the time the three of us walked from the cook-house to the lecture theatre, two, twenty seat, army busses, filled to capacity, drove through the gates on their was to the train station. On the back seat of the last one, I saw David looking very gloomy.
The lecture theatre quickly filled with weary, aching bodies. I sat with Frank and Jock Griff, none of us spoke. It was very restful, as we waited for the lecture to start. The warmth, and quiet, made me feel very sleepy and I had to fight hard to stay awake.
Once again our Colonel appeared, wearing casual clothes, and took up position behind the lectern, which now stood down-stage left. Centre stage, a huge screen dropped in, suspended from ‘fly-wires’. The Colonel held a slide projector switch, in his left hand, and picked up a long wooden pointer with his right. The light’s dimmed, he pressed the switch, ordering the first of many slides. This one was simple, it was pale yellow, with ‘NORTHERN IRELAND’ spelt out in red, block, capitals.
For the next two hours he, gave us a ‘potted history’. Like most members on the course, I had no idea of the background to the ‘troubles’, and thought that it was a present day, political/religious problem. So, to be told that it all started in 1166, with a feud between the deposed King of Leinster, Diarmait MacMurrough and, High King Ruairi O’Conor of Connacht along with his mate, O’Rourke of Breiffne, and that this dispute, was eventually resolved, when MacMurrough, invited a group of English Norman Lords, to help him oppose his enemies, in return for a bit of a ‘jolly’, and a slice of the Country’s wealth, and that from that day on we have been in conflict; came as a bit of an eye opener.
As the lecture progressed, so too did my understanding. By the time I left the theatre, I had been introduced to all the active terrorist and political organisations in the arena. Some, such as the Fianna Scouts, the youth organisation of the IRA, and Cum-na-Bahn, the women’s IRA, I’d never heard of, which, given that I’d just toured in a strong Catholic area, made me realise that proper intelligence was sadly lacking for the every-day soldier on the streets.
As we left the theatre, we were told to parade at 1900 hours at the unit’s armoury. There was just enough time to get a meal and freshen up. Given the events earlier in the day, everyone arrived in plenty of time. Six members of the training team turned up, four of them were women. Very quickly, we were divided into six smaller groups. Groups one and two were issued with 9mm Browning Automatic Pistols, groups three and four with the standard issue SLRs, and groups five and six with the Armalite AR-18s. Each group was led away by an instructor, to a room in the Skill at Arms Wing. I was with group two. The instructor was a lovely looking blonde, who had the look of Debbie Harry, I couldn’t help wondering what the hell she was doing in this game.
I was used to the Browning, but said nothing when she asked who had used one before. I was glad I’d kept my mouth shut, as moments later she was handling the weapon with a professionalism that I’d not seen before. Not only that, but she went through the IA, (Immediate Action) drill, with such speed, that it looked more like a magician’s, hand-trick, than the act of clearing a jammed weapon. Following her brilliant introduction to the weapon, and its capabilities, she watched, and helped those of the group who had not worked with the ‘9 milly’ before. Time after time, she made us practice the loading, unloading, stripping, cleaning and IA’s, until our hands were sore and tired. Through the evening we worked, changing, weapons with the other groups, and going through the same intense routines. I was impressed with our ‘Debbie’. No matter what weapon she handled, she did so with incredible ease and professionalism.
At 10.00 p.m., tired and exhausted I made my way to my room. Jock Griff and Frank were already there.
“Did you ‘ave that cracking blonde?” Frank asked.
“Have her!, I fucking wish,” I said, “if you mean did she take me for weapon training, yeah.” I continued.
“I had one of the women as well,” Frank said, “she was awesome, what she didn’t know about weapons weren’t worth knowin’.”
“Wha’ I doona, understand, is that women aren’t allowed ta carry weapons in the British Forces.” Griff was right.
“Well, it’s certain that these have.” I said as I undressed.
For a short while, we talked over the day’s events, but none of us could keep our eyes open. The room fell quiet, each of us aware that we had to parade at 6.00 a.m. I ran through the day in my mind, trying to gauge how I had done. Before I could give myself a ‘pat on the back’, I fell into a deep sleep.
In what seemed like seconds the room light went on, the voice of one of the instructors, Tony, filtered into my head. ‘Shit,’ I thought, ‘we’re late’. Angry at my-self, I flirted out of bed like one of those ‘jack in a box’ toys, grabbing my wash kit, before my feet hit the floor.
“You’ve got no time for that.” Tony said “get your kit on and go straight to the main lecture theatre”.
I looked across at Frank and Griff, they, like me believed we’d overslept. Frank glanced at his alarm clock. “Christ, it’s only one o’clock!” He shouted. “What’s all this about, Staff?” He asked the question we all wanted answering.
“Never mind what it’s about, get over to the theatre, before two fifteen, or, if you like, climb back into your pit, and we’ll see you on the bus, in the morning.” Tony smiled, “Your choice.” He said quietly.
By 1.15 a.m., the three of us sat in the same seats we’d been in only hours before. Once again, the large screen hung in the centre of the stage. All around us trainees, sat, looking and feeling like shit. The theatre doors were closed by a small male instructor, as he left the theatre. Everyone knew that anyone outside wouldn’t be continuing with the selection. I glanced around as the lights dimmed, there was a lot of empty seats. The theatre went into complete darkness, no-one said a word. The sound of a projector pre-warned us that a film was about to start. For the next forty-five minutes we watched an old black and white film of Sir Edmund Hillary, climbing Everest.
I wasn’t sure what was expected of me, then Frank leaned across. “I bet they’re going to ask us questions about this.”
I nodded, and realised that he was probably right. I sat up and took notice. The film ended, the doors opened and our instructors entered. We were told not to talk, and escorted back to our individual block lecture rooms. Ours had been transformed from the empty room we’d stood in yesterday. Now it was lined with single, desks, positioned in exam formation, each had a number attached. I sat at sixteen. In front of me a sheet of paper, lay face down, a pencil accompanied it.
“You have twenty minutes to complete all the questions on the paper,” Alan said. He looked at his watch and waited for the second hand to find twelve. “Ok.”
With that everyone turned their paper over, with the exception of me. I watched them, and smiled to my-self as I recalled the day I’d run away from the welding exam. I glanced at my watch, it was 02.15. I turned my paper over, questions were set from top to bottom, I read the first, ‘WHAT SEX WAS THE INSTRUCTOR THAT CLOSED THE THEATRE DOORS AT THE START OF THE FILM’. ‘Crafty bastards,’ I thought as I wrote my answer. The rest of the questions were about the film, I was pleased that Frank had guessed right, and that I’d taken notice.
By 03.00 a.m. I was back in bed. Although I was absolutely tired out I couldn’t get to sleep, my mind was working overtime, involuntarily going through the film, and coming up with answers to questions that the paper didn’t ask. I was annoyed with my-self for not being able to clear my thoughts, but the more I tried to stop it the worse it got. Eventually, I drifted off, waking, as Frank’s alarm struck up. Once again the three of us, leapt out of bed, went to the wash-room and put our PT kit on.
By 07.05 a.m. we were running alongside our instructors, heading for the gates. This time though, we didn’t run as far, and headed back to camp within the hour. We were all pleased about this, as none of us were up to a heavy session. Back at the camp, we were taken into the Gym. Uniformed PTI’s stood by pieces of equipment. Each held a clip board. The minute we arrived they started, randomly dividing us into smaller groups. Each group stood next to a piece of equipment. Once sorted, a whistle sounded and off we went. PTI’s in any situation act the same, they shout and bully everyone. When the Colonel said that there would be no beasting, he obviously forgot about the PTI’s. They went at us ‘hell for leather’, ‘encouraging’ us to do one more sit up, another pull up, a quicker shuttle run. One exercise finished, we’d run to the next, then the next, then the next, and so on. Time after time we’d be back at the start, hoping that this time would be the last but it wasn’t, they kept us hard at it for over an hour. My head, felt as though it would explode, my heart was pumping so much I thought it would burst, and my muscles ached so much that I was having problems keeping them working. As I pushed my-self to my limits, I was aware that many around me were falling by the ‘way-side’. The Gym door opened and closed many times as those who hadn’t made the grade, were escorted out.
‘Stop!’ The sergeant’s voice echoed around the Gym. ‘Stand still, do not slouch, stand exactly where you are.’ No one needed to be told twice. We all stood, exhausted, panting and swaying as we tried to control our breathing and failing muscles. ‘Ok, outside, go!’.
Heavy, cold, rain met us as we emerged from the Gym. Steam was whisked away from our bodies by a strong wind. Several instructors were waiting for us. Once again we were put into groups and taken away to the edges of the camp. For the rest of the day we worked in teams, carrying out unusual physical and mental tasks.
For the rest of the week the punishment and testing continued. By Monday of week two, less than half of the original recruits were left.
The physical side of the selection was unrelenting. Everyone was carrying several injuries, and a host of blisters on feet and other prominent parts of our bodies. I’d managed to knock my big toe nail with enough force to lift it off its bed. I strapped it with heavy duty sticky plaster to stop it from coming off completely. The pain of it was so great that it nearly made me physically sick every time I ran or jumped with it.
Continuing with our skill at arms. A new weapon was introduced to us, the Remington pump action 12 bore. At first I couldn’t think why we would need to carry such a ‘tame’ weapon as this, alongside the awesome firepower of our service weaponry. I soon realised its potential. Loaded with a single piece of lead, this weapon could take a door down or stop a moving vehicle with such effect that it would have pleased a tank commander. Once again, the professionalism of the instructors shone through as we watched them using the Remington on the ranges.

We left the ranges late in the afternoon and were told to grab a bite to eat and parade outside the main lecture theatre. By the time I arrived most of the recruits were already lined up. A member of the PTI staff I’d not seen before arrived moments later. He was tiny I didn’t think anyone could be that small and get in to the army but he certainly had. “Listen in” he shouted, a distinct Irish accent accompanied the words as he read from a sheet of paper. “I’ll call your numbers in groups of four. Once you’re numbers are called make contact with your group and take a seat in the lecture theatre. “Group one, twelve, fifteen’ forty four, Group two, Twenty one, thirty, eight, nine.” I was the last number called and moved into the theatre one step in front of titch. I took the nearest available seat next to the door. To my right sat my group. I looked along the line. Seventeen was a young fresh faced soldier who I guessed hadn’t been around very much. Next to him sat five, an attractive dark eyed girl in her early twenties, with shinny shoulder length dark brown hair tied tightly into a pony tail. She’d taken her combat jacket off and was displaying a lovely pair of tits. Next to her ten sat cross legged. She was no where near as attractive as five. Also in her early twenties she was very tall, very thin with a really sharp face. Her hair was brown with tight curls. She was covered in freckles, even her hands were covered. There were no tits. She had a wedding ring on though, so I guessed that someone other than her mother loved her. Set out on the stage in front of us was a line of 1:25,000 ordnance survey maps. Each had a Silva orienteering compass, note paper and pencil neatly positioned on top. During basic training I’d learnt how to carry out simple map and compass work but it wasn’t one of my strong points. In fact I was bloody useless at it!
“I want one member of each group to dress forward, collect a map reading kit and return to your seats.” Up until now I’d been very impressed with the organisation of selection everything carried out in a proper manner. This was bloody chaos. The nominees trying to get to the stage. Some climb over the seats and squaddies in front of them, others came from the middle of the rows treading on feet and ankles as they made there way to the aisles leading to the front. Needless to say there was a lot of swearing, jeering and generally pissed off people. “Quite” titch had a fucking big voice. He certainly made his point. The whole room fell silent. “Now carry this out without comment.”
Finally everyone got back to their positions. As I was the last person in my row I waited until the melee stopped and picked up the one remaining set.
“The object of this exercise is quite simply to navigate around a given route and to write down what you find at each of the places indicated by the map references. You’ve got two hours and your time starts now.”
Everyone in the room sat silent and puzzled for a second or too. A couple of eager beavers made tried to make a move but decided not to tread on the forty or so of us that hadn’t stirred.
“Er I say staff,” a Rupert spoke up from somewhere behind me, “we don’t seem to have been given the map references.”
“Perhaps you should look before commenting.” Titch smirked.
At that the room erupted into activity, maps note paper was scanned, maps unfolded. Eventually a series of six figure map references were located, written so small that they were barely visible in the lecture theatre’s low light. Almost simultaneously the torches were switched on.
“Right I’ve got them.” I said. “C’mon let’s go.”
“No wait, ten’s voice was as thin as her stature, “Write the references out larger so we can see them easier.”
Clever stuff I thought as I did what she’d suggested. Trying to write with fifty hairy arsed squaddies fighting to exit through a tiny door is not recommended. The four of us moved onto the stage letting the flood past as I finished writing. I was about to join the back end of the exodus when ten spoke again.
“Let’s take the time to find the first location before we go out into the dark.”
Sensible stuff this. I turned the map over. It quickly became apparent that the map was not a representation of the camp area. After a bit of a ponder ten was there again.
“There’s the corner of the camp boundary.” She pointed to a spec of a line just protruding into the map and she was dead right. She’d proved a point. I handed the map to her
“This isn’t one of my strong points.” I said.
“It is one of mine.” She smiled.
“It’s not one of mine either,” seventeen confirmed that he was even greener that I’d thought.
The girls moved close together edging the two of us away from the map. Their heads went down, seconds later they were sorted.
“Ok, let’s go.” Ten led the way. I could see how she got herself married.
Outside teams were running off in all directions. Some went as far as the nearest amber light and quickly returned to the theatre. We started to jog following behind ten. Out of the main gate we turned right. I was a little concerned as it seemed everyone else was turning left.
“ Don’t worry, we’ve got it right.” Five said as she grabbed a hold of my arm and turned me away from the lefties.
The four of us jogged along the edge of the road leading away from the camp. It was pitch black on the road, quite often we’d lose the safe tarmac surface and stumble on the grass verge. Eventually we arrived at a cross roads surrounded by several dwellings.
“We’re looking for a feature, probably a telephone kiosk” ten said.
“Why a kiosk?” I asked.
“Other than the buildings it’s the only prominent feature shown on the map.”
Fare enough I thought. Then I realised I liked ten.
“Over here.” Five pointed to a short walkway leading only to the kiosk. We all went down.
The dim light barely illuminated the inside of the kiosk. Other than the actual telephone there was only a copy of the local directory. ‘Must be a posh area this,’ I thought, back in Stoke someone would have used it for the fire. On the window there was a sticker advertising a local taxi firm. Next to it someone had scratched a number into the glass. Both of these were noted down just in case. Torch on, the two women sorted out the next location and off we went again. This carried on well into the early hours of the morning. Ten locations were visited and notes made. There was about a mile between each location so I reckoned with the initial run out and the return we’d covered around twelve miles. I was knackered and looking at my colleagues they felt the same. At around 2am we arrived back in the camp. Throughout the exercise we’d seen and heard military transport. Now back in the confines of the perimeter fence the transport was unloading the failures, those who’s fitness or map reading just wasn’t up to the task. Back in the lecture theatre the full extent of the fail rate was apparent. At least twenty were missing when the doors were closed by Titch. On the stage a group of instructors stood in a semi circle Titch stood in front of them and addressed the audience.
“I’m going to read the first three numbers of the last map reference you were given. You should make your way in your groups to the instructor I nominate. The instructors will mark your findings.”
Group by group we moved onto the stage and found our instructors. Looking at the way everyone was moving we weren’t the only ones feeling knackered. What was surprising was the fact that most of the instructors on the stage had been training us all day and now stood around looking as fresh as daisies. At the end of the allocation I stood with the rest of my group. We were the only ones standing without an instructor.
“You’re with me,” Titch said, he pointed to the side of the stage. We followed him to his chosen area. “Let’s have a look.” Ten handed him the notes. He checked them carefully against his list. “Well done, you’ve got them all right and some more as well. That’s good.” The girls had pulled it off. I was sure that I would have failed had I have been the reader. Titch walked back to centre stage. “For those of you who have struggled with this exercise I suggest you take the time to refresh your skills. You were all taught this subject in basic training and so there should be no excuse for not being able to map read. Their will be more to come. In the next week and I can tell you that anyone not being able to map read under pressure will not be going on to continue the training. This is week two of a two week assessment. Even if you have passed all the tests we may RTU you because the training team has concerns about your commitment, behaviour or ability to continue.”
I hadn’t realised the significance of these first two weeks.
“Off you go, parade outside the gym in PT kit at zero seven hundred hours.”
On the way out of the lecture theatre I grabbed hold of ten’s arm.
“Any chance you could give me a hand with the map reading.”
“Yeh ‘course I can. We’ll start tomorrow. I’ll meet you in the NAFFI when we break.”
By the time I climbed under the bed covers it was 3.15 am. I was drained. My toe was wrecking, throbbing and very sore. It didn’t keep me awake for a second. There’s something euphoric about falling into a deep sleep when you really do need it. There’s something bloody sadistic about the army’s need to shatter it when ever possible.
“Get, up, get your kit on we’re under attack.” The instructor’s voice bounced off the walls. Huge explosions were going off all around the block sending flashes of bright light through the windows into the block. Every soldier knows the sound, sight, and smell of thunder flashes. Every instructor has woken up his trainees with them. These instructors were not the exception. I looked at my watch it was 4am. “Get out side, quick, get out now.”
Within minutes we were running behind the training staff towards the camp gates. We were off on yet another run this time a three mile run, and I mean run. When we got back I didn’t bother getting undressed and crashed onto my bed. I was aware that my toe was bleeding heavily but couldn’t be bothered with it.
Day two of the second week started with a wash and shave at 6am. By seven I was lined up outside the gym with what looked like a parade of zombies. It was threatening to rain and very cold a strong wind made it feel icy cold. No one said a word. We filed into the gym. I was limping my toe was killing me now. I wasn’t alone, most of us were limping. Many had heavy bandages supporting their knees and ankles. At least I hadn’t got ligament damage and sprains to contend with. I felt sorry for those who did have. This routine could only make matters worse.

The gym had been set out for circuit training more or less the same as it had been last week. Medicine balls were the only addition. These we had to pass to our partner whilst standing back to back. Passing it at waist height first to the left then to the right as many times as possible in two minutes. Sounds easy but it isn’t, not after spending two minutes on all the other apparatus and having only managed one and a half hours sleep. The circuit training carried on for about an hour. Followed by yet another run. This time only s short distance to a muddy stretch of water adjacent to the assault course. On the banks there were huge lorry tyres. We were divided into threes and told to stand next to a tyre. The staff explained the task. It was simple get the tyre to the other side and back again as quick as possible. I looked at my team mates. They were remarkably similar, they could have been brothers. They may have been. They were around my height and build with round squashy features, piggy ears and striking blonde hair. Numbers 49 and 50. Fifty had heavy strapping on both knees and thighs. Forty nine had a badly scrapped shin. Between the three of us we looked as though we should be reporting sick, certainly not about to transport a lorry tyre across a muddy shit hole.
“Go.” There was no mistaking Titch’s voice.
We didn’t even have chance to speak to one another. In unison the three of us bent down, slid our hands under the tyre rim and lifted.
“Fucking role on,” forty nine was definitely northern English, “this bastard weighs a fucking ton.”
He’d summed it up perfectly. It was a bastard and it weighed a ton. The bastard levelled out and we ran as best we could to the edge of the watery bog. By now it was absolutely throwing it down. The rain was running off our heads like waterfalls we could hardly keep our eyes open against the flood. We entered the bog and sank up to our waist. The huge tyre threatened to pull us under the mud. We fought as a team. Our hearts pounded, lungs ached and throats red raw, the effect of gulping air in at a fast rate. As we dragged ourselves forward the mud changed from fine silt covered with algae to a black, bluish, brownish thick slime full of leaching chemicals and iron oxides. We were churning it up from the bowels of the pond and it stank of rotting vegetation. Inch by inch we hauled the tyre through the mud. Eventually we got to the water channel. This made the job a little easier although it was much deeper and we were half swimming half walking under the water, pushing and pulling for all we were worth. Reaching the far bank we looked back across to the waiting instructors. The effort we’d given thus far, they could have been across the channel and we’d have felt less shattered. The three of us looked at each other and without saying word we were off across the shit hole once again. We’d only moved a couple of feet when I was aware that I’d become entangled with something well below the muddy surface. My right leg was wrapped up with something that felt like wire. I tried to get rid of it by jerking my leg violently but this just made matters worse. The other two were unaware of my problem and carried on tugging at the tyre. My hands were lodged in the cavity where the inner-tube usually sat. I couldn’t move them out quick enough and before I knew it I was being stretched between the lads effort to reach the end and what ever was trapping my leg. The strain forced me under the mud. My mouth, nose and ears filled with the slimy gunge. I couldn’t breath, Although I’d instinctively closed my eyes they too were filling with shit. It was obvious that my team mates hadn’t yet realised as I could feel them tugging at the tyre. They must have made one almighty effort as I was nearly wrenched from my leg by the power. Instead I felt a very sharp ripping pain down my shin. Then everything stopped and I started to sink. The boys, realising there was a problem had let go of the tyre and were working hard to push their legs through the heavy mud in an effort to reach me. The tyre, being full of the crap was dropping quickly ably helped by my body in it’s effort to rest at the same deep level as my feet. I was totally helpless I tried to struggle free but with out oxygen I couldn’t get my muscles to work. The thought crossed my mind that this could be the end of my selection either because I was going to die of asphyxia where I lay or my leg was so badly damaged that I wouldn’t be fit enough to continue. I could hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing for what seemed a life time then I felt a hand grab my right wrist and free it from the tyre, then my left. At the same time I could feel two more sets of hands trying to grab my arms and another set pulling my left leg. With the effort I popped out of the shit like a cork from a champagne bottle. I used the air trapped in my lungs to force most of the shit out of my mouth.
“Let go of my leg,” I screamed, “ I’m caught up.” The hands pulling my left leg belonged to one of the women recruits who had seen what was going on and come over with her team to help out. 49 and 50 had supplied the other hands and were now holding my head and shoulders out of the mud. Another guy was trying to get the shit out of my nose and ears. My eyes stung like hell there was no chance of my getting them open. The girl at the leg end started to pull again.
“No don’t,” I was calmer now, “My right leg’s caught up in wire or something.” I could feel her hands searching my leg. As soon as she touched my shin it began to sting.
“It’s barbed wire,” she said. “It’s wrapped around really tightly. I can’t get it free.”
With that announcement several other recruits who had finished there task jumped back in and came to my aid. Between them they managed to get me free although the barbed wire was still attached to my leg they had traced it back to the reason I couldn’t shift it. It was still attached to a piece of fence post deep in the bed of the pond. Once they freed that I could be taken out of the pond. On the bank side two of the instructors took over. Aware of the danger of exposure, the rest of the numbers were doubled away to get showered and changed. Whenever we were involved in exercises there was always a vehicle nearby. On this occasion it was a long wheel based Landover. It had already been summoned and I was placed on the open tail board by the staff. They wrapped me in the vehicle’s camouflaged hessian to keep me from losing any more body heat and began to assess the damage. I looked at my leg. My blood was well mixed with the slime. The barbed wire was tightly wrapped around my lower leg. Using fresh water from the vehicle’s water carrier the instructors washed away the mud revealing a skinned shin. Luckily the barbs on the wire had all but rotted away, only two had penetrated into my muscle at the back of my leg. The main damage had been done by a shaving action as the wire tightened and was then scraped down my shin bone by the forceful effort of my team mates. There was a lot of blood. More now that the wound had been cleaned. The instructors worked carefully to un-wrap the wire. When they got to my foot they were met with a long thin strip of my flesh, the strip that used to belong to my shin. It was paper thin and came away as they lifted the last piece of wire away. Although I’d suspected the worse the actual damage wasn’t that bad. It looked much worse than it was. This was confirmed later by the unit medical officer who having practiced his javelin technique on my arse with a hypo full of tetanus serum covered the wound with a light dressing and sent me on my way, telling me not to get it wet. By the time I got to the shower the mud had dried on me. I looked a bit like a pig that’d had lots of fun wallowing on a sunny day. How I was supposed to get clean yet keep my injury dry was beyond me so I tied a plastic carrier bag around it and stepped into the shower. The bag lasted all of ten seconds. It filled with water. The stinging sensation was only just bearable.

Showered, dressed in civvies and feeling relatively ok I hobbled over to join the rest of the recruits in the main administration block. They were sitting in what could be best described as a small school hall. Even the seats looked as though they’d come from a junior school dinning room. Red plastic seats and back rests, brown tubular steel frame. Horrible.
“What’s happening.” I asked.
“Dunno, we were told to sit here until our number was called.”
“Anybody been called?”
“Yeh a couple, then they were taken into the room over there.” He pointed to a door that was every bit as daunting as my old headmaster’s. It was the same style and colour too.
By the time my number was called I had been sitting so long that the whole of my body had begun to seize up. I was so stiff that getting off the chair took enormous effort. The room was nothing like my headmaster’s study. His was full of memorabilia and book shelves, a carpet. This room was empty other than a sad looking oblong wooden table. Behind it sat two men, probably in their fifties, certainly late forties. Both were smartly dressed but didn’t have that military bearing and neatness of dress. These looked like boffins. On the corner of the table there was a pile of brown files. In the corner of each there was a white patch about two inch square with a number boldly marked in broad, black ink. In front and in between them there was a single file marked 44.
“Good afternoon forty four, sit down.” The instruction came from the guy sitting to my left. He was without doubt a Rupert, public school accent, superior body language, the full bollacks. “I’m colonel Falkner, and this is Major Hughes.” He nodded towards his colleague. We’re from the medical corp, we’re psychologists.” I obviously looked surprised. “Don’t worry,” he read my body language perfectly, “this is a normal part of the selection process and everyone joining the unit has to be assessed for their mental suitability. If you get through selection you will be expected to undertake hazardous and dangerous duties in a very hostile environment.”

The lectures increased in frequency and depth. All the time now, we were reminded of the fact that we were targets for the terrorists and that at all times we should be conscious of their need to capture one of us for questioning. To drive this point home we were given an in depth account of the discovery and deaths of several of the units operators who were working in the province undercover, operating a laundry business, which, throughout its short time managed to get in depth information about the terrorists and their activities. The brutal murders of these operators underlined the dangers that we were going to be exposed to and left us in no doubt that if we got through selection, our training would be just as hard and demanding.
Before the horror of the ‘laundry’ incident had had time to settle out of harms way in the depth our brains, we were ushered from the main lecture theatre into a single story building with a long central corridor. Doors stood at regular intervals on either side and reminded me of a rank of guardsmen, all looking exactly the same and regimental. As we entered the corridor a bell rang and from the doors came a selection of white coats, each carrying a sheet of paper. They began to shout out our numbers. As they did, you had to listen hard to distinguish who was shouting your number, as the row echoing around the walls distorted the speech. Eventually, I made my way to a very tall, thin man. He had a face which I can only describe as white and spiteful. Without looking up, he turned from the corridor and entered the room as I approached. I followed him in, and shut the door. I looked around, the walls were bare, a small desk had been pushed against the wall, indentations in the carpet, and a square, less faded than the rest, told me that the room had been recently altered. In the centre stood two simple office chairs. Leaning against the leg of one was a black, leather briefcase, which, judging by the scuffs and worn edges, had seen a lot of service. On the flap, just above the lock were the letters ‘ER’ stamped in gold.

Those of us who managed to get through were put onto the units coaches and transported to Hereford’s Sterling Lines, for the next stage of the selection.

WAIT OUT Part 16

2011-02-15T00:13:00.000-08:00

“I note, that during your imprisonment, you have made a request to be considered for the Special Air Service, or for Hazardous Duties in Northern Ireland.” Colonel Reilly looked up at Fusilier Steen.
Steen stood rigid to attention, his belt and beret replaced, for the first time in thirty days. “I ‘ave Sir.”
“Well,” the Colonel continued, “I have to say, that at this time, I am not prepared to endorse your application.”
Steen felt his temper rising, but knew that he was in a ‘no win’ situation. “Right Sir.” He suppressed his desire to ‘go’ for the Colonel.
“I have my doubts about your ability to function in stressful situations without close supervision.” The Colonel picked up a report from the Regiment’s prison wing. “My concerns are upheld by the prison staff, who, likewise, have concerns about your ability to make rational decisions, when under stress.”
Steen felt his stomach churn as he held himself together. “I understand that Sir,” he disguised his hatred well, “but,” he continued, “I would like the opportunity to prove that I can work under stress.”
The Colonel, took the plea on board, but, nevertheless, kept to his agenda. “I hear what you are saying, Fusilier Steen. I have to think of the wider picture, and I have to say, once again, that I am not prepared to endorse your application at this time. Should your present attitude and short temper subside, then I may re-think my position. It’s up to you to prove me wrong, and, if you do so, I will be pleased to endorse your application for selection to either the SAS, or for hazardous duties in Northern Ireland.” The Colonel looked up. “Dismissed.” He said as he looked back at the negative reports laid out before him.
Jock Steen, saluted, turned about, and marched out of the CO’s Office, with the Regimental Sergeant Major close behind. On the outside, he half turned and stuck two fingers in the direction of the CO, making sure he was out of sight of the RSM.
He walked slowly back to join the sniper section, who were preparing for continuation training on the ranges surrounding Catterick Garrison. His thoughts deepened, as he realised that he had to tell his friend and mentor that he had failed at the first hurdle to being accepted for service with Britain’s elite special forces.
The ‘range day’ went quickly. Steen made his way to the public telephone kiosk, near to the Guard Room. At exactly 7.00 p.m., he dialled the number to Patrick O’Brien’s home.
“Jock,” O’Brien was anxious and quick to answer.
“Aye it’s me.”
“Where, in God’s name have you been?”
“Locked up.”
“Ah, my boy, ‘ave you no thought for us out here who have a concern for you?”
“Och aye, but ‘ave noo way of tellin’ ya aboot ma problems ‘ere.”
“You could have written!”
“Och, I was only allowed one letter a week, an’ that was tae ma Maam.”
“Well you could of told her, she’d have told me.”
“Ave no wish tae worry ma Maam.”
O’Brien realised the position Jock had been in and changed the tone of the conversation.
“Well, tell me what’s gone on.”
Steen explained the reason for his incarceration, but lied, about his temper and actions, saying, that he had been the one who had been attacked, but that, the attacker’s mates had said that he had been responsible. O’Brien, was not convinced, but let Jock lie, un-hindered.
“Ahh well, you’ve done your time. Now, what else can you tell me?”
For a moment there was a silence. “I ‘avna, been successful, in ma application to join the SAS.” He said, almost apologetically.
“What about the new undercover force?” O’Brien’s pitch telegraphed his concern.
“That neither.”
“I don’t understand, what’s the problem?”
Steen had no hesitation in his, quickly constructed response. “They avne got theirr act t’getherr yet.” He lied. “Ma name’s doon for the first intake.”
“Any idea when that’ll be?” O’Brien’s voice had a note of optimism in it.
“Ave no idea, but I’ll keep the pressure up.”
“That’s good, Jock, I’ll let my friends over the water know that you are pursuing that. Well done.”
“I’ve bin told tae day that the Regiment is tae spend the summer training in Canada, so it’ll be some time before a can properly apply.”
The problems and position understood, the conversation ended and Steen made his way back to his block. The hate inside him for the ‘British Military’ was becoming unbearable.
He knew he had no chance of infiltrating the heart of the Special Forces, and, realising that one day he would have to face his handlers, he began to construct a way out of the predicament his lying had put him in.
His thoughts turned to the possibility of spending the summer planning, in the lea of the Canadian Rocky Mountains. Talk of another four month tour of Northern Ireland, scheduled to start in July 1993, stirred him.
…

The Undercover Soldier

2011-02-06T04:50:00.000-08:00

“You should think about volunteering for the new special duties unit.” Ackerman said as I dropped him off at Aldergrove airport.
“I wouldn’t know how to.” I said as I passed him his kit.
“Look on Part One Orders.” Eddy McGees‘s Yorkshire accent was unmistakable.
Tony Ball didn’t want to be the only one not to comment. “Or speak to your Chief Clerk.” He added.
Minutes later I was on my way back to Bessbrook with my Commando escort. The C130 Hercules aircraft lumbered overhead, leaving a trail of burnt gases lingering in the cold evening air, as it transported the first recruits to the newly formed Reconnaissance Group.
The journey back was uneventful, the roads were unusually quiet, only the drone of military traffic ferrying the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers to the airport disturbed the night air. Their four month tour over, they would be with their loved ones within a day.
Back at Bessbrook Mill, I cleared my weapon before reporting to the OP’s room, to await my next duty. I’d already been ‘duty driver’ for twelve hours and was beginning to lapse into unconsciousness when 2nd Lt John Lair arrived with his section.
“Oh good, driver Griffiths is on.” He said as he handed his movement orders to the duty clerk. He turned to me and smiled. “You look like shite.”
“Thanks Sir.” I said as I started to force myself back to life.
“We’re going to do some head checks in the New Lodge area.” He’d slept all day, and now, was raring to go. “Come on man, get your act together.”
I smiled as best I could and collected my webbing and SLR. “On my way Sir.” I responded on ‘auto pilot’. It was difficult to string words together, my mouth and brain were working in different levels of consciousness.
Through the night, we worked the now, familiar routine… I’d drive into a dark, sleepy, street, stop the Pig and cover the Marines as they ran along garden paths, breaking down the doors of a suspect’s house, before running up the stairs and into sleep filled bedrooms, ordering the occupants downstairs where they were checked against military and civil lists.
Every now and again we’d find a player (involved with a terrorist organisation), but, for the most part, we did nothing more than turn the public against us. This particular night was no exception and our ‘head check’ sortie was getting us no where. 2nd Lt Lair decided to change tack and set up a VCP (Vehicle Check Point) at the junction of New Lodge Road and North Queen Street.
Minutes later I was kneeling at the rear of my vehicle, covering the Marines as they flagged down passing motorists and checked their ID’s. It was the early hours of the morning. Rain poured down, the wet and cold, winter air, was penetrating deep into my body. I was exhausted, sixteen hours of duty were wearing me down. My eyes were scanning the Artillery Flats, I was having difficulty focussing, the rain, cold and tiredness, all playing their part. In a split second the feeling left me as a shot rang out, the round hitting the floor inches from me. Without thinking, I threw myself to the ground, rolled away, cocking my weapon as I did, and came to rest in a perfect position to return fire. A second shot zipped over the Pig, I could see the flash of the offending weapon to the side of a building, and called the location to everyone around me. Marines were diving for cover as a third round came thudding into the side of the armoured car. This time I was ready and returned fire. A chunk of masonry flew from the corner of the building above the terrorist’s head. For the firs time I could properly see the target as he ducked away from the splintering debris. I took aim at the bulk of his body and squeezed the trigger, controlling my pounding heart and breathing slowly I fired. At the same time, several other shots rang out all around me as the Marine’s also located the target. I watched as the figure jerked, and virtually stood up with the impact of the 7.62 mm round that hit him. Everything went quiet, the figure blown back out of sight, denied us any further action. As I climbed aboard my vehicle I could hear the radio operator giving details of the shooting to our OP’s room. Marines loaded, I drove like a mad man to the terrorist’s position. I brought the Pig to a screeching halt, the Marines ‘de-bussed’ and took up, all round defensive positions, for fear of a ambush, or booby trap, before searching the immediate area. I sat with the engine running and rear doors wide open, ready to make a quick getaway, or to chase a suspect vehicle. Nothing happened, eventually, 2nd Lair, moved his section forward, each man, covering the next until they were at the terrorists location. There was nothing to be seen, except the spent cases from the Armalite Rifle, and a lot of his blood.
I watched, as the strong searchlight from the Army Air Corps’ helicopter illuminated areas of the surrounding streets and buildings, in an effort to locate the terrorists, but to no avail, the place was deserted.
Back at base, I had time to reflect on the encounter as I waited for a visit from the SIB (Special Investigation Branch-Army Detectives). During training I’d often wondered how I would react under fire, and now I knew. I was surprised as I didn’t feel at all frightened at the time and as if on auto pilot, I followed my training instructions to the letter. Now, though, in the calm of my room I began to shake, and the realisation that I’d shot someone, didn’t rest easy with me.
Although absolutely tired out, after being on duty for twenty hours, I sat and gave my report to the SIB and another man, who, I later found out, was from the RUC Special Branch. Towards the end of my report, Robert Nairac, dressed in dirty civilian clothes, came into the room and told us that a man with a severe gunshot wound to the chest had been admitted into Victoria Park Hospital, at 3.30 a.m. and had since died of his injury.
“I take it this was your handy work.” He said when he saw me in the interview room.
Before I could respond, the police stood up and ushered Nairac from the room, leaving me alone for about fifteen minutes. When they returned, they told me that they couldn’t confirm a kill, nor were they able to positively confirm that it was my shot that hit the gunman. Following the interview my SLR was taken away for forensic analyses.
The day after, I drove over to the RCT HQ at Moscow Camp, near to Belfast’s Harland and Wolfe ship building yards. At the HQ, the CO of 47 Air Dispatch and the camp Adjutant greeted me, along with my Troop commander, Captain White. Since my arrival in the province this was my first visit to the HQ, and, although Captain White had visited Bessbrook, on a number of occasions, I had been out working.
In the aftermath of the shooting, they had wanted to congratulate me on the work I was doing with 45. Apparently, the Bessbrook contingent had sent through a number of good reports about my conduct. I didn’t know it at the time, but this action was the first 47 Air Depsatch had been involved in, as many of the lads were deployed in general duty transport roles based at Moscow camp, the RCT Headquarters near Belafast docks.
After the short, but, nevertheless, appreciated welcome, I made my way to the armoury to collect another SLR. Weapon in hand, I was walking past the admin block when a voice I didn’t recognise called to me, through a tinted window. I went inside and was surprised to see Fred Holder, sitting on the Chief Clerk’s desk. I’d only been in contact with Fred for a short time during the intelligence briefing and the trip to Lisburn, so I was surprised when he remembered me.
“I hear you’ve bagged a player.” He said as I walked towards him.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “It could have been any one of four, three Marines also fired on him.”
“Yes, I know, but none of them think they hit him. In the ‘Mess Stakes’, you are favourite.”
“You’d better have been, Griff, or I’m out a fiver.” The Chief Clerk, strained his neck to look around the sitting figure, his tiny head, and sharp nose reminding me of a Cormorant I’d seen fishing in the water as I’d driven past HMS Belfast.
“What’re you doing here sir?” I asked Holder.
“Getting my movement order to join the Reconnaissance Force.”
His reply surprised me as I was under the impression that recruitment was from either serving or former members of the Special Forces, which, he wasn’t.
“I didn’t know they were recruiting outside Special Forces.” My voice echoed my surprise.
“Yeah,” The Chief’s head and neck appeared again, “The DCI’s here.” He said as he handed me a piece of paper.
Taking it from him, I read it slowly, to myself. “What’s this about?”
I asked.
Holder snatched it from me. “As it says,” He read it allowed. “Volunteers from all three services are required for selection and training for hazardous intelligence duties in Northern Ireland.” He put the paper down and turned around. “Chief here can put your name down if you want.”
“How about it Griffiths?” The Chief asked.
“Yeah, OK, I’ll have a go.” I said without thinking.
“The CO will have to agree it though.” The Chief said, as he wrote my name down.
The words hung in the air as Captain White walked in. “The Boss will have to agree what?” He joined in the conversation as he placed a bundle of papers on the Chief’s desk.
“Young Griffiths here wants to apply for hazardous duties.” The Chief replied as he picked up the bundle and thumbed through it.
“Well, you’re certainly fit enough, I should say.” Cpt White paused before continuing. “I wonder though, whether you fully understand what you’re letting yourself in for?”
“I think so, Sir.” I said, but in fact, I had no idea.
I made my way back to Bessbrook, and thought no more about it.
The morning after, I was tasked to take a section of 45 to Antrim, where they were meeting up with some of the Royal Greenjackets for a joint operation. As I was driving through Belfast a huge explosion ripped through the streets. In front of me I could see dozens of birds flying amidst black and yellow, smoke. I put my foot down and turned into University Street. Half way down the remains of a building were strewn across the street, people from adjoining properties were running around, holding their ears and screaming many of them were bleeding. We radioed our position and went to help. The police and another Army foot patrol joined us. We feared a second explosion, but put that to back of our minds, as we tended to the wounded and dying. Having secured my vehicle, I went straight to the, now smouldering, building. In the rubble I could see a hand moving, the rest of the body being obscured by a part of a bed. I pulled the bed back and came face to face with a mutilated torso, the body had been torn in two by the force of the explosion. The contents of its stomach oozed out, a mixture of dark green, brown and red, surrounded by shredded flesh, was all that was left below the rib cage. The rest of the body and head was a mass of deep jagged wounds, a flap of scalp, covered with black hair had been blown back, leaving the skull exposed. I couldn’t work out if this was a man or woman, there was no clue. For a moment I couldn’t take my eyes off the remains, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. By the time I regained my self I was aware that an ambulance crew were standing above the building’s cellar, which was now nothing more than a hole in the ground, surrounded by smouldering bricks and dusty lengths of broken timber. I struggled over the debris to reach them and looked down. Four or five stone steps were perfectly in place, leading below ground. Leaning against a wall at the bottom sat a shredded body, its eyes continually blinking as it struggled to gain some grip on life. Before the explosion this was a young woman in her early twenties, now, she was reduced to a whimpering pathetic lump of scorched meat. Her breasts, were empty, only the strands of skin were left, hanging like ribbons, dripping blood. There was nothing anyone could do. We watched in silence as, what was left of her nervous system, twitched and jerked as it fought to keep her alive. Her eyes kept staring at us, non of us could move. There was very little of her face and neck left, yet she was sobbing, we could clearly hear her weak voice moaning.
All around us soldiers, medics, police and firemen were searching the debris. A fleet of civilian and army ambulances were ferrying the injured away. Then, it all stopped and I found myself running with the rest of them as an ATO (Ammunitions Technical Officer) shouted through a loud hailer, ordering us to clear the area. Unknown to us, the house had been a bomb factory, the bodies, we’d found were a team of bomb makers, who’s terrorist work had gone horribly wrong.
I watched from a safe distance as the ATO, clad in a heavy, unmanageable bomb protection suite, made his way down the cellar steps and slowly moved rubble, brick by brick, as he searched for explosives and bomb making equipment. The process was painfully slow, each of us holding our breath, time after time, as we watched him, make the area safe. As though he hadn’t enough to contend with, there were reports that a sniper had been seen in the area. Immediately, our thoughts turned to the protection of our bomb disposal man. Each of us turned our eyes away from him and scanned the surrounding buildings, searching for a sign of a gunman. There was nothing to be seen.
‘This is terrorism at its worse, or best, depending on your point of view’, I thought as I drove the section back to Bessbrook.
Our original task had been ‘scrubbed’ to give us a chance to draw fresh uniforms, as the ones we were wearing looked more like butchers aprons, than the ‘Queen’s Uniform’.
Back at Bessbrook, I went to the stores, dressed in my PT kit and carrying my blood stained combats. The storeman, was a tall thin sergeant, in his thirties. Although his cap badge showed he was from the Royal Army Ordnance Corps, he wore the coveted green beret associated with Royal Marine Commandos, signifying that he was a member of the Commando Logistic Regiment, and had completed the ‘All Arms’ Commando course. I joined a waiting line of Marines, watched him take the ‘contaminated’ combats from each man and hand a new set back.
“Name.” He said without bothering to look up from his bundle of papers.
“Griffiths.” I replied as I put the soiled uniform on the counter.
He thumbed his way through the bundle. “You’re not in here,” he looked puzzled. “You’re not due to be posted?” He asked.
“If I am its news to me.” I joked.
He turned around and made his way to another set of papers, and once again thumbed his way through. “Here we are,” he said as he lifted out a sheet detailing my kit allocation. “I thought you said you weren’t posted!”
“I aren’t.” I said, not attaching too much importance to where my documents were stored.
“Well, according to this you are. You’re RTU’d (Returned to Unit).”
“There must be a mistake.” I said. The Army made the odd mistake from time to time, so once again I didn’t think anything of it.
After some muttering about how he should have the right documents in the right folder, he issued me with a new set of combats. I made my way through the tight alleys leading back to my room. It was a very cold night. I was shattered and couldn’t get the sight, and sound of the days events out of my mind.
I opened the door, the single light bulb, struggled to fill the crowded room with its orange light. The room had been designed to accommodate a manager’s office, now, it housed our steel, tube, bunk beds and our combat kit. I stepped quietly over a mound of webbing, which had been dumped in the centre. Each bed had two brackets designed to hold the SLRs we all carried. Only one space was vacant, and I leaned over to clip my weapon into it. The room smelt of bodies, the snoring marines, were deep, in a much needed sleep. A row of grey, steel, lockers half covered the office windows that overlooked the ‘factory’ floor, which, was likewise, crammed with beds, webbing, weapons and men.
I carefully put my combats away, and slipped out of my PT kit, placing it on the end of my bunk. I eased my self onto the bed, the creaking springs, disturbing the marine below me.
A distinct, Birmingham accent floated up. “Ave’ yer bin, over the Ops room?”
“No.” I said as quietly as I could.
“The Chief Clerk’s been over, he wants to see ya right away.”
“Fuck sake.” I said as I eased my weary body over the side. “What’s he want?”
“A Dunno. Put the light out willya.” A ruffle of sheets and twanging springs told me he didn’t want to go any further with the conversation.
I grabbed my PT kit, climbed into it once again and made my way to the OP’s room. It was midnight. The radio operators were listening to the patrols, my entrance had little effect on them. The duty officer sat at his desk, writing in the light of a small desk lamp. He looked up, but again, took no notice of me. I opened the door marked ‘CHIEF CLERK’. It was dark, the light from the Ops room shone in, and picked out a single grey tube bed. As the light hit it, the Chief threw back a single blanket. Fully clothed, he swung his legs over the side, placed his feet on the floor, and fumbled for the bedside light, scratching his head, and yawning as he found the switch.
“You wanted to see me Chief.” I announced as the light came on.
“Did I,” he said without looking at me, “why’s that then?”
“I don’t know Chief, it’s driver Griffiths.” I said.
“Oh, yes, Griffiths.” He stood up and moved across to his desk, putting the main light on as he went. He looked across at me. I hadn’t seen him before, he was older than most of the men at Bessbrook, probably in his mid-forties. He was very tall, and reminded me of my Dad. “A movement order has come through for you today.” He told me. “You’re to hand your bedding in tomorrow morning, and report to your own Chief Clerk at Moscow camp by fourteen hundred hours. I’ve arranged transport for you, at thirteen hundred.”
“Any idea what’s up?” I asked.
“None,” he looked at the signal he’d received earlier, “It says here that this is a sensitive signal, and your not to discuss your movement with anyone.”
“Thanks Chief”, I said as I closed the door.
“Griffiths” The Chief shouted me back, I opened the door and peered in. “I’ve allocated your bed to the new driver, he’ll be here at noon. Have your kit sorted and be out of the room by then.”
I nodded, and left the Ops room in a bit of a daze. The last time this sort of ‘secrecy’ was placed on me was when I was waiting for the interview from the SIB after the shooting. I ‘racked my brains’, trying to work out what they would want to interview me for, this time.
Although I was tired, I slept intermittently, my mind racing between the horrors of the bomb and the uncertainty of the reason for my RTU.
The morning came quicker than I wanted and I found myself fighting to clear my sleepy head and get on with the laborious job of handing my bedding and weapon in, and getting a clearance note from the stores. I managed to get my act together, and before I knew it I was carrying my kit up the concrete steps and into 47 Air Dispatch’s Admin block at Moscow Camp. Once in the block, I was greeted by WO2 Grieves, at thirty eight, he was one of the old boys, his round face and body showed that he’d started to kerb his active military life, he was standing in for WO1 James, 47’s Chief Clerk.
“Driver Griffiths” His deep Welsh tones filled the air between us. “You have been chosen to go for selection to the newly formed Military Reconnaissance Force.”
“The what force, Chief?” I enquired.
“Hazardous duties, Griffiths, you applied for it, now you’ve got it.” He said, without any sign of emotion.
I’d not thought about my hasty request in any detail, now, all of a sudden, I was unsure about the whole thing. “So what happens now Chief?” My mind was on auto pilot. I was too tired to think too deeply about it.
“Firstly, you are not to mention it to anyone, understand, Griffiths” He continued before I could answer. “You are not to discuss this with anyone. You are not to tell anyone what you are up to.” The Chief spoke slowly and deliberately, making sure I understood every word. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I said, realising that this was important stuff.
“OK.” He knew I was just coming to terms with it. “Now,” he said, “the CO wants to see you.”
I didn’t need this, I was very tired, and too confused. Nevertheless, this had to be done and so I walked across to a small ‘portakabin’ surrounded with newly painted RCT blue and white oil drums. WO2 Grieves walked by my side. I could see several of my mates, who were working at Moscow, wondering what the hell was going on. Seeing me being paraded in front of the CO, they must have thought I’d done something wrong.
At the CO’s office, I was met by Captain Chris Keeble. His bright blue eyes, and striking blonde hair, shone, nearly as much as his broad smile. He shook my hand, something which doesn’t normally happen between man and officer. It threw me for a second. “We’ll see one another soon.” He said, and continued, “Well done, well done.” He was overjoyed, and left the office without another word.
I walked in and came face to face with the CO. He had an unusually warm smile, and greeted me as though we were on equal terms, which we were not.
He stuck out his hand and grabbed mine.
“Driver Griffiths,” his handshake was warm and friendly, “I’m very pleased to be able to recommend you for service with the newly formed Reconnaissance Force. I’m sure that the Chief has told you about the need for the utmost secrecy in this matter.”
“Yes Sir.” I said.
“Good,” the CO continued, “I have had to put a report in about you, letting the Int’ (Intelligence Corps), boys know that, I feel you are of the right stuff, and all that.” He stumbled around his words, reminding me of Prince Philip. “I am sure you will make a very good ‘operator’. I have also told them about your education problems, which, I understand from Chiefy here,” he nodded to WO2 Grieves. “You have started to overcome by extra tuition.” He looked at me as though I should answer.
“That’s right Sir,” I responded, “When I was stationed with 16 Tank Transporters, I attended the education unit. I’ve continued with that, and still have extra tuition over here.”
“Yes, so I understand.” He smiled as though he really cared. “That’s what I’ve told them.”
“Thank you Sir.” I said without knowing what I was thanking him for.
He turned away, and walked back to his desk. “No one must know your reason for being RTU’d.” He said with a very serious expression. “You are forbidden from disclosing your whereabouts, or your training to anyone, at any time. Do you fully understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes Sir.” I was getting fed up with this cloak and dagger routine, although the CO would not have detected it from my answers.
“The only people who know of this outside the Reconnaissance Group, is myself, our Chiefy, and Captain Keeble.” His voice lowered, as he held his hand out once more. “I can only wish you good luck.” He said, as he shook my hand for a second time.
I walked back with the Chief. Once again, mates of mine were watching me, and whispering to each other, all wondering what I’d done wrong.
“Here’s your movement details.” The Chief passed me a set of ‘joining instructions’. “You are to go straight to the Intelligence HQ in Ashford, Kent.”
I briefly read the instructions, which said nothing more than the Chief had told me, other than to give me details of the kit I should take with me, and my movement details “What about my kit in Lyneham?” I asked.
“It is being boxed up at the moment and will remain in stores until you get an RTU, or pass the course, in which case it will be sent to you.”
I read the kit list…
‘KIT PT = 1, DRESS WORKING = 1, PLIMSOLLS, = 1, BOOTS DMS = 1, DRAWS ARMY = 1, KFS (Knife Fork and Spoon), MUG ARMY ISSUE, TOWELS GREEN = 2, PERSONAL WASH KIT. YOU SHOULD ALSO BRING WITH YOU ONE CHANGE OF CIVILIAN CLOTHING. THE WHOLE SHOULD BE PACKED IN ONE LARGE KIT BAG AND A SMALL BAG CARRIED AS HAND LUGGAGE.
“There’s not much kit here.” I said more to myself than the Chief Clerk.
“Have you read the movement order?” He asked.
I turned the page. ‘YOU ARE TO FOLLOW THE DESIGNATED ROUTE, AT THE TIMES SPECIFIED. YOU MUST NOT DISCLOSE YOUR MOVEMENT DETAILS TO ANYONE. YOU MUST NOT USE ANY ALTERNATIVE ROUTES. YOU MUST NOT USE YOUR OWN VEHICLES FOR ANY PART OF THE JOURNEY. YOU MUST NOT TRAVEL IN UNIFORM.’
The rest of the paperwork listed the times and destinations of the various, transport I’d be using to make my way to Ashford. I spent the next twenty minutes, in the Chief Clerks office, rearranging my kit, and changing into my civilian clothes. A four month tour of Northern Ireland doesn’t require you to use much kit, so the task was easy. My remaining kit, and a few personal belongings I packed into a heavy cardboard box, which I sealed with broad, black, adhesive tape. I marked the box in black felt pen, with my Army number, rank, name and 47’s Lyneham address.
“Just leave it there.” The Chief Clerk said as I put the marker pen back onto his desk. “I’ll see to it.” He picked up the internal telephone and dialled the Guard Room. “He’s ready now.” The Chief said nothing more and put the telephone down. Moments later two of 47’s Regimental Police appeared. I picked up my two bags and walked with them. As I was about to leave the room the Chief, spoke unusually quietly. “Good luck.” He said.
Outside, we walked to the vehicle park. Neither of the RP’s spoke to me. On the park a canvass sided, Army, Bedford MK four ton, stood with the engine running. Sitting in the back were two rows of 47’s soldiers, ready for the journey to RAF Aldergrove, and the flight home for their, mid tour, four day ‘R and R’, (Rest and Recuperation). Naturally, I walked towards the waiting vehicle. Several of my mates were patiently waiting. It was obvious from their expressions that they were expecting, as I was, for me to climb onboard. Without a word, one of the RPs pulled at my jacket, and pointed me towards a waiting Saracen. I threw my kit on and climbed in, between two RCT escorts. Again, not a word was spoken. We sat in absolute silence, throughout the journey to Aldergrove airport. On arrival, I was met by an RAF policeman and taken to a departure lounge away from the troops, waiting to board the RAF’s VC10, which was waiting on the tarmac’.
Moments later, I was escorted to my seat, at the front of the narrow bodied aircraft. I sat alone, and began the journey to Ashford in a now familiar silence.
…

PHONE HACKING POLICE TACTIC

2011-01-24T12:29:00.000-08:00

POLICE PHONE HACKERS

Ever wondered why the police have not properly investigated the phone hacking allegations. Well how about this….

The police have used the same techniques time and time again. Illegal it is and they knew that but they justified their illegal activity by stating that they needed information that they could only get by illegally tapping and hacking phones.

As a private investigator I have been approached on many occasions by all sorts of people to listen in to phone calls. I don’t know of any PI that has not been approached. Most of the UK PI’s will have declined this business, but, many would not have. Those who took the business on would have made a considerable amount of money, not only from the jealous spouse but also from very respectable people in our society, including the police and special branch. I understand this. When your back is against the wall and you need evidence police or not, the route to that evidence may well be illegal but, they would argue, necessary! So imagine how they must have felt when they were asked to investigate phone hacking and other illegal listening devices and techniques. They must have had a near melt down. “What if our enquiries lead back to us?”, “What if the investigators we’ve used ever told the truth?” What a nightmare. You can understand their dilemma. Can’t you?

The last thing the police want is a full and frank investigation. They have colluded with the Fleet Street journalists and now have to protect them by not fully investigating the allegations…..

Just a thought, I may be wrong…….

Kenn Griffiths.

LEAVE A SECRET SAFE AND SECURE

2011-01-15T03:09:00.001-08:00

LEAVE YOUR STORY SAFELY ONLY TO BE SEEN BY THE PERSON OR PERSONS YOU CHOOSE.

What is a Life Story Heritage?

It’s anything you want it to be. It could be that you have a real secret that you don’t want to disclose until after your death. Or it could be that you have a special person that only you know about and that you want to leave them with a memory of you or tell them how you really felt.

Maybe you have a confession or need to leave instructions or directions.

What about writing a story and having it read by your family and friends later in life.

You may have a missing family link and want to leave a message for absent family members or friends that are found after your death.

How about this……

You are being threatened by someone and you have something on them. If they touch your story about them will be told even if you are dead!

Good eh!

Or, you have secret documents. Why not scan them into your Life-Story-Legacy. No one other than you has access to your Legacy, unless of course you give them the access code.

Visit our Life Story Legacy at http://www.mychildcontact.com and click on Life Story.

I'm A Celebrity

2010-11-15T05:17:00.000-08:00

15th November 2010 By Andy Jones

Your Shout ( 1 )

I’M A Celebrity is back and the nation’s favourite method of star torture has got us all glued to our TV sets.

And, of course, the main thing we all look forward to is the gruesome Bushtucker Trials, where the celebs have to chow down all manner of disgusting bugs.

But it’s not just Oz where you can feast on some of the strangest creatures out there. There’s plenty available in Britain.

The Daily Star scoured the woodlands and markets of the country to find the UK’s most stomach-churning snacks.

Then we tried them out, with the help of Kenn Griffiths, army survival instructor and author of The Survival Manual.

WAIT OUT part 14

2010-09-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

Jock Steen lay on his bunk bed, exhausted from another eighteen hour duty in the cold of the OP’s (Observation Posts) around New Lodge. Keeping his eyes open and his wits sharpened was hard, but the conversation between his ‘mates’ was important. He listened intently as Corporal Davis told them about the formation of the special operations unit.
“ Who told ya aboot that then.” Steen sat up as the news sank in.
Corporal Davis slid his webbing to the ground, his heavy magazines landing with a loud clang, which disturbed another sleeping soldier. His pinched face was pale, his eyes bulging from lack of sleep. “ The RCT driver told me.” He continued. “He took J.C. for a high powered meeting to HQ last week. Apparently, everybody who is somebody over here was there.”
“ The CO (Commanding Officer) went oot? I didna’ know, no one mentioned that to me.” Jock realised he’d missed the opportunity he’d been waiting for. The killing of Lieutenant Colonel Jeremy C Reilly would have been a major triumph.
“ No reason why you should know, it was strictly a need to know basis, even the escort and driver didn’t know until fifteen minutes before they went out.” The conversation ended, Davis threw himself on the bed and was asleep within seconds.
Steen made his way to the telephone kiosk outside the ops’ room. A row of soldiers waited patiently to phone home. Steen joined the que, the damp, cold, grey air engulfed him. next to the OP’s room, the CO’s office light burned brightly, JC’s head was in a perfect position for a sniper’s ‘head shot’. Jock noted the movement as the CO held his Court, several of the Regiment’s high ranking officers responded to the unheard words with the nod of a head and the scribble of pen. Steen’s mind raced as he fantasised about the death of so many of his officers and the acclaim he would have from his mentor and his PIRA handlers. His desire to kill was becoming overwhelming, time after time he would plan the death of a colleague, or innocent Protestant he saw in the course of his duties.
O’Brien was aware of Steen’s frustrations, they were evident as Jock told him about the latest deployment of troops in the New Lodge area, and the formation of the specialist under cover operation.
“We need to know more about that organisation Jock.” O’Brien’s voice showed his excitement. “This is exactly why your role is so important to us. I know you want to be at the forefront of the fight, but believe me, you are more use to us where you are.”
“ A dunna want te be ‘ere, sucking up to these fuckin’ bullshit bastards all around me.” His outburst in front of so many of his colleagues, threatened to blow his cover.
O’Brien had sensed for some time that Steen was loosing it. “You’ve got just three weeks to do before your tour ends.” He reminded Steen. “Don’t jeopardise our operation now.”
“I hear what yer sayin.” Steen’s voice calmed a little.
“How will they recruit into this new unit?”
“A dunna know, but a would think through the SAS.”
“What are your chances of getting into the SAS?”
“A’ve no idea.” Jock was aware that he’d been on the phone for some time, he sensed the line of soldiers behind him were becoming agitated as they waited for him to finish his. “I’ll apply as soon as possible.”
“Let me know the outcome as soon as you can, will you do that?” O’Brien asked.
Steen was about to answer as a voice from the que shouted to him. “For fuck’s sake Jock, come on, everyone agreed, no more than four minutes.”
Steen turned around, his eyes widened as he singled out the soldier from B Company. “Will ya keep ya fucking gob shut, I’ll tak’ as long I want.” his voice bounced off the buildings, a murmur of disapproval met him as he turned back to his call. Once again the soldier’s voice rang out “Come fucking on Jock.”
Without another word Steen let the telephone go, and ran at the soldier, with fists and boots flying, he pounded the unsuspecting Fusilier, who fell to the ground, injured and bleeding. Before the rest of the que could intervene, Steen sank the heel of his boot deep into the side of the man’s face, a sickening crack ended the attack. Steen showed no remorse as he went back to the telephone. The continuous tone signalled that O’Brien had hung up. With one snatch, Steen ripped the mouth piece from the kiosk.
“Now fuckin’ use it.” He said as he threw it to the ground.
Back in his room, his mates could see he had ‘one of his moods’ on him and said nothing for fear, of his now notorious, temper. Before he could get to his bed two of the Regiment’s police arrived, arrested him and escorted him to the OC’s office.
“I’m placing you under open arrest, Fusilier Steen, for the unprovoked assault on a fellow soldier.” The OC’s words seemed to have no effect. “You could make a dammed good soldier Steen, but there’s a part of you that cannot be trusted.” The officer could see that his words were unheeded, “Take him away.”
Moments later Steen lay on his bed, under ‘open arrest’ he would be paraded before the CO the next day for his punishment. Sleep took over, his conscience clear, he fell into deep slumber.
The CO had been well briefed about the rising concerns of Fusilier Steen’s colleagues and Officer’s, those concerns were reflected in the CO’s summing up.
Steen, flanked by two Regimental Police, stood to attention in front of the CO’s desk, his belt and berry removed and carried by the Regimental Sergeant Major.
“I’ve heard the events surrounding last night’s assault and can say that I am appalled by your actions. I’ve listened to the comments about you, from your superiors, and share the concerns they have about you. By all accounts, you are a thoroughly nasty piece of work. You will have to change your ways if you intend to continue with your military service!” The CO stopped suddenly and shuffled a pile of papers. “Now,” he continued, “do you accept my punishment, or do you wish to be tried by Courts Martial.”
Steen answered without hesitation. “ I accept your punishment Sir.”
“OK, then I sentence you to thirty days imprisonment. You, will be flown from here today, taken back to Catterick, where you will carry out your sentence in the Garrison’s prison. Do you understand?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Take him away RSM.”
…

Telephone Bugging

2010-09-08T04:05:00.000-07:00

TELEPHONE BUGGING/HACKING

I’ve been a private investigator since 1994 and I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t approached by someone who wanted a telephone bugged. Of course I didn’t take the work on as it is an illegal act. However, all of these enquirers would have found someone who hacked into the telephone conversation and no doubt charged a lot of money for the information.

People are now asking why the police are not following up these illegal phone tapping acts. Well in the first place it’s not an easy investigation as much of the work is carried out covertly and the equipment is left in place with very little evidence at the scene to connect the hacker or ‘bugger’ to the crime. Also, the police do not always know about the intelligence gathering of other agencies and as such, they are not going to tell anyone who they suspect of being bugged just in case they upset another Government department.

When I am not approached to bug somewhere I am approached to carry out electronic counter measures or ‘sweeps’. This of course I do carry out as it is not an illegal act. In essence this involves bringing in sophisticated electronic equipment that searches for bugs. Simple! No, not at all. I have seen a lot of so called counter measure sweeps that were no more that a couple of guys turning up with screw drivers and extremely simple battery operated equipment designed to scan the airways for signals. They are great at finding radio stations but are not capable of detecting the kind of equipment used in professional electronic surveillance.

If you have any questions about this interesting subject then please feel free to jump onto my web site http://www.kenngriffiths.com and send me a mail.

WAIT OUT part 13 Contact!

2010-08-29T01:36:00.000-07:00

Five days after ‘the night of terror’, as the Fusiliers would forever call it, I looked out from the RAF’s VC10. A plume of smoke drifted up to meet us as we banked over Belfast on our final approach. The rows of tiny houses growing larger and coming to life as Belfast’s Aldergrove airport appeared below us. Within minutes of landing, we were whisked out of sight, issued with ‘flak jackets’ (bullet proof vests), given our destination, told which transport to board, and began our journeys across the city to our allocated units. I sat alone in the back of the vehicle, aware that the, heavy armoured vehicle, was shielding me from the long lines of mourners who had come to pay their respect to the Pub’s dead.
Although it was difficult to see or hear what was going on outside, I was aware that we were moving through busy streets. The Saracen’s driver and escort said nothing, each concentrating on the journey. As we turned sharply left, I could clearly hear two high velocity shots. In recognition the vehicle lurched as the driver put his foot down, swinging it from side to side as he swerved in an effort to escape the line of fire.
“What’s happening?” I shouted as I clung to the vehicle’s sides.
“Shots, two of them”. Came the escort’s reply. “Just hang on, you’ll be ok”.
My SLR, (Self-Loading Rifle) had hardly been unpacked and here I was poised to use it at any moment. “Where about are we?” My voice only just managed to get over the screams of the powerful engine.
“North Queen Street”. The driver replied.
Before I could say anything else the heavy armoured car screeched to a stop, the momentum throwing me across the floor.
“Bollocks!” The driver said it all.
His escort turned calmly to me. “We’ve ended up in the middle of a funeral, “there’s people taking cover everywhere.”
“I’ll reverse and turn down by the old people’s home.”
The driver changed his position in an effort to see through the two tiny slits that pushed their way through the steel plate to the outside world.
Moments later we were heading away from the reorganising funeral. Only to be stopped again, this time by an advancing ambulance, its sirens bouncing off the steel all around me.
Once again, the escort turned to me. “We’re going nowhere for a while. Someone’s been hit, we’ll get out and give some cover.”
I felt my throat dry a little as the heavy metal doors swung open, the driver and escort standing either side, weapons at the ready. I stepped out and took my first real view of ‘the area of operations’. A crowd had gathered and were watching me as I moved my weapon to the ready position. This could have been a street anywhere in England. It looked a lot like Stoke. The people looked familiar, as though I should know them. One man in particular caught my eye. He was wearing a blue parka, with grey fur around the hood. As our eyes met, I thought he was going to say something, but then he stopped, as though he thought better of it. I closed the back doors and realised the reason for our attendance. Further down the street I could see the Red and White hackles of the Fusiliers as they hurried back and forth into an old people’s home, carrying first aid kits and field dressings. Then, as though from a film set, two military police came out and took up fire positions, they were followed by several fusiliers and a ‘corridor’ of fire power formed, protecting the ambulance crew who were wheeling a stretcher carrying a badly injured corporal, the result of another, well aimed, sniper’s bullet.
When I finally arrived at Bessbrook Mill I was unceremoniously deposited and had to find my way to the MT office.
Bessbrook was a large site and had obviously been built as a factory. In the location were men from the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, The Scots Guards and 45 Commando. My orders were to join 45 and work with them as a driver. I met up with a corporal from 10 Regiment RCT, who would normally be stationed in Bielefeld, Germany. This fat, black haired Welshman was obviously pleased to see me, as my arrival signalled the end of his four month tour.
News of my arrival and my quick introduction to the streets had spread. A number of soldiers asked me about it as I collected my bedding from the stores. Having satisfied their curiosity, I was given a room number and made my way along a maze of buildings and corridors. Eventually, I arrived at my allocated room. It was a small room, cramped with four sets of grey, iron two-man, bunk beds. I looked around, only one was empty. I threw my bedding and kit down, and began the task of making my own little nest. As I made my bed I became aware of someone standing behind me, I turned around and met the deep dark eyes of a Guards officer. I couldn’t see his rank, I didn’t have to, I could tell a ‘Rupert’ (Commissioned Officer) from a mile away, although, I have to say this one seemed a bit different. I stood to attention immediately, wondering what the hell he wanted.
“Sir,” I said as he walked in.
“Oh, forget that here, I can’t be bothered with all that.”
I couldn’t put the months of Army training behind me that quick and still stood to attention as he sat on my bed. I looked down and could see that he was well built, fit, and had the look of a fighting man. His nose was a little flat and slightly twisted, broken high on the bridge, there was a light swelling around his eyes as though fat had covered old injuries, the shadow cast from his beret, which was shaped more like a squadies than an officers, accentuated the swelling.
“I’m very interested in the trouble you saw earlier today.” He said as he lay back. “Did you see the crowd at all?”
“Some of it, Sir.” I replied
“I wonder, did you recall seeing a man about my height and age, wearing a very distinct dark blue parka coat with grey fur around the hood?”
I thought for a moment before I answered. “Yes Sir, I think I did.”
“Think, or know?”
“Yes, I’m sure I did, a man in his mid twenties, he was standing near to the back of the Saracen as I got out.”
“What made you notice him?”
“I thought I knew him for a second, I got eye contact with him, he looked as though he was going to say something but then moved away.”
Before we could say anything else the doorway was filled with the figure of Sergeant Bob Ackerman and another man, both were wearing civvies (civilian clothes) and looked as though they hadn’t had a haircut or shave for some time.
“I might of bloody known,” he said as he recognised me, “Driver Griffiths.” he continued, “I see you’ve met Mr Nairac here.” He nodded to the officer. “This is Eddy McGee.” He introduced the slightly built man, who now sat with Nairac on the bed. “This gentleman, is Driver Ken Griffiths of 47 Air Despatch, we met in training.”
I was puzzled.
“Have you asked him about the contact?” McGee asked Nairac, through thin lips his and diluted Yorkshire accent.
“Yes, he says he’s seen someone fitting our man’s description.”
“Well, he’s no fool, ” Ackerman chipped in, “we can work on the basis that he’s seen what he says he’s seen.”
“Good!” Nairac said, as he stood to leave.
The three men moved out of the room. Ackerman told me to meet them in the ops’ room at 19.00 hours.
At the appointed time, I arrived at the OP’s room. It was a long, thin, room with an equally, long, thin, table. Cheap wooden seats were placed all around. Many of them taken up by uniformed figures. Cigarette smoke filled the air. Around the walls maps hung between black and white writing boards, all of which were soiled by the stains of a thousand former briefings. I sat down between Ackerman and Eddy McGee. A small squat guy, with very short light hair, wearing a dark blue tracksuit, sat next to Eddy, he looked vaguely familiar. Across from us sat a tall Royal Marine with jet black hair, huge shoulders and arms. He sat with his elbows on the table, his massive hands interwoven, a name tag neatly sown on his combat jacket introduced him simply as Lair, there was no rank, but he was obviously a Rupert. Other soldiers sat around but these four seemed to be the ‘Head Shed’ bods.
Ackerman opened the discussion and explained that he had been in a covert location with Eddy, when they heard shots from a sniper’s rifle. But, they were too far away to be of any use.
The squat guy next to Eddy leaned forward. “I was on the roadside when the shots were fired. I had a clear view until an armoured car hurtled around the corner.”
All eyes turned to me. “I wasn’t driving, ” I said in my defence. I looked at the ‘tracksuit’, and realised that he was the man in the blue parka.
He introduced himself, “Tony Ball” He said. He looked across at the Marine’s Rupert, “I’ll say this again John, there has to be a leak. Look at the statistics, we’ve had five shootings, and two explosions on the patch, each incident in or near a secure location.”
John Lair thought for a moment. “We have no real intelligence, we’re reliant on Robert’s contacts in the RUC.” He said thoughtfully.
Nairac responded, “There has to be a concerted effort to gather our own intelligence, as well as pick the brains of other professionals. It’s clear that there is a break down in information sharing.”
“ Two days ago,” Ball jumped in, “I saw three MI5 guys at a meeting aboard HMS Belfast, all they did was ‘slag off’ MI6, it’s ridiculous.” Tony Ball’s frustration was obvious.
McGee responded, “We need to develop our own undercover teams, we’ve done it in other theatres, we’re blind without good quality, first hand information.
The discussion was going over my head and I was beginning to wonder why I was party to it, when John Lair took the floor.
“ Ok, we’ll go down to the HQ briefing and put our cards on the table. We’ll need a driver and escort.”
“ Gavin, you’re the duty driver,” A voice from the far end of the room filtered down. I looked across and was surprised to see a Royal Corps of Transport, Captain. Cpt Fred Holder was a tall, slim man, although commissioned, his demeanour suggested that he was an enlisted man. “ I’ll come along and show you the route, 45 will provide the escort.
A short time later, the Head Shed, were on the move, this time they were all in full uniform and taking their proper parts in the Army I knew and understood. They climbed aboard my Pig (armoured car). Cpt Holder climbed in the passenger seat as two commandos positioned themselves either side of the closing back doors.
Holder said very little, other than to guide me along the unfamiliar route to Lisburn. Throughout the journey, there was a solemn silence, the passengers deep in thought, preparing themselves for the meeting to come.
The security at Lisburn was extremely tight. Once I’d dropped off my ‘cargo’, I was ushered to a parking area, which was full to bursting, with armoured vehicles from all over the province. It was clear that this was an important meeting. For four hours the HQ block stood in silence, the thick walls concealing any sign of the ‘high powered’ meeting going on inside. Escorts and drivers waited patiently, their whispered conversations adding to an already, eerie atmosphere.
The sound of a door opening hailed the end of the meeting, a steady stream of uniformed men appeared, as scores of engines came to life, exhaust fumes filled the cold night air.
Unlike the journey out, the Pig was full of excited conversation for the return journey, each man echoing and approving the HQ’s decision to form a specialist military force to work undercover in the province.
…

WAIT OUT part 12 Troops Deployed to Ireland

2010-08-24T00:42:00.000-07:00

In 1971, the 2nd Fusiliers had no sooner moved from Berlin to Catterick Garrison when they too were sent to patrol the Belfast streets. Steen’s skills as an Army sniper were employed to watch over the Fusilier’s Headquarters, and return fire should an attack come from the Artillery Flats area of New Lodge. The PIRA were unlikely to launch an attack against one of their own and so Jock Steen had nothing to fear.
His skill as a, sniper training officer for the PIRA, was having greater effect, his labours being rewarded when, on December 4th at 8.47 p.m., following the sound of an explosion, which had been so close to the Glenravel Street HQ that they thought they were under attack, he stood in the OP’s room and listened to the radio chatter.
In the surrounding area, a huge bomb had been detonated seconds before a patrol from ‘C’ Company passed by. The patrol, led by Major Jeremy Snow were the first on the scene. Their eyes met a heap of smouldering rubbish which moments before had been a packed two-story pub. The cries of the wounded and dying filled the cold night air. A neon sign flashed ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS’ in the distance, barely readable through the thickening black smoke. The sound of advancing ambulances and rescuers grew by the second, as the patrol tended to the wounded before handing over to Major Mike Dudding, who would help with co-ordinating the rescue, freeing Major Snow and his team to carry on with their patrol.
Steen listened intensely, aware that but for the bombing, this had been a quiet night. That changed at 10.00 p.m., when reports came in of a one hundred strong Protestant mob who had assembled in Duncairn Gardens and were taunting the Catholics as they tried to come to terms with the bombing. Within minutes an equally strong Catholic crowd had formed and was shouting abuse back at the Protestants. Major Snow radioed for assistance. Steen’s ears ‘pricked up’ as he realised the crowds were moving into North Street.
In the dimly lit arena, Major Snow put himself between the warring sides, in an effort to bring some order to the deteriorating situation. As he did, shots rang out, sending people flying in all directions, leaving Maj. Snow alone and in full view. One more shot from an M1 Carbine was heard and the Major dropped where he stood in Hillman Street.
Steen listened in silence as the Battalion Ambulance carried the Major to hospital’ and radioed in a ‘contact’ report.
“It was a PIRA sniper then”. He said to no-one in particular.
His face showed no sign of remorse then, or later when he heard of Major Snow’s death. Later at the appointed time he made his nightly telephone call to his mentor on the mainland reporting the deployment of troops and the success of his sniper’s activity.
…

WAIT OUT Part 11 P Company Selection

2010-08-02T05:39:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER THREE
Selection
Three weeks leave was far too much for me, after the first three or four days I wanted to be back at Aldershot, not least because Senga’s father was due to be posted to Market Drayton in Shropshire, and Senga had decided that she would find a flat and stay in Aldershot.
My Dad had remembered that one of his former Army mates, Butch Knall, had remained in the service and transferred from Transport to the Para’s and was now at Browning. When I arrived back, I decided I’d go over to find him. Before my leave, I could walk around any part of the Garrison unhindered, now, the threat of the IRA was beginning to permeate through and security was stepped up. As I approached Browning, I was stopped and my ID checked. Eventually I was allowed through and ran into Ackerman and Jock Currie. I told them about my Dad’s mate and much to my surprise they knew him and took me to meet him. Butch was a tightly packed ‘bull dog’ with a shaven head. I introduced myself and straight away, we ‘hit it off’. Butch laughed when Ackerman told him about our ‘bit of action’.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve obviously got some spunk, from your Dad I suppose, and you certainly look like him.” Butch said as he looked me up and down.
Between the three of them I looked and felt very humble, here were three men who’d been around quite a bit and had seen a lot of action. Butch told me that he was on the training staff and had responsibility for ‘P’ Company’. ‘P’ Company, he explained was para’ training for other military personnel, who were not serving with the Parachute Regiment, but were nevertheless trained to work and jump alongside the Para’s.
“I take it you haven’t heard of 63 Squadron, RCT Logistic Para.”
I hadn’t and told him. Moments later the four of us were walking through the Museum, where I was shown the emblems of Logistic Para’s and, for the first time was introduced to the Special Air Service, all three had served with 22 SAS at some stage of their careers and now, took great delight in telling me all about it. A section of the Airborne Museum had been dedicated to the men from Hereford. I was intrigued by the whole episode. I hadn’t realised the diversity of the Army. I had no idea that soldiers could work in such clandestine ways. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, looking at the different roles and listening to these men, lit a flame in me that would burn for a very long time.
Back at Buller, for the next six weeks, I went through my ‘trade’ training. I learnt to drive, passed my Heavy Goods Class Three license, found my way around the workings of an engine, and emerged as a ‘B3 Driver’. It was awful, I hated it! The only good thing was that Senga moved into her flat and so every night I went from the MT park to live with her, leaving the ‘bullshit’ of the barrack block behind me. I still had a bed there but that was all. Even though the rest of the lads were well pissed off about it, none of them ever let on that I was ‘living out’, something which was not allowed unless you were married, and even then, not during training.
On the last day of the trade training our squad reported to the Chief Clerk in the HQ (Head Quarter) block for our posting details. The ‘cream of the crop’ was to be posted to a Tank Transport Unit. Everyone wished for that, but postings from training to one of these units was rarer than ‘tits on a fish’.
“Driver Griffiths,” I came to attention as the Chief Clerk called me.
“Chief!” I answered smartly.
“612 Tank Transport, Fallingbostle Germany.”
I was gob smacked as he handed me my travel warrant and joining instructions.
Back in the accommodation block the rest of the lads were congratulating me, although I could tell they were ‘jealous to fuck’, they never showed it.
The night before we all went our separate ways and joined our units, the squad had an almighty piss up in the NAAFI. I’d already said my good bye to Senga as, I had planned to stay in the block. We’d parted on the basis that I would send for her when I’d settled in my new unit. I hadn’t bothered to contact Dianne, so she didn’t know where I was.
Before the serious drinking got going, Ackerman and Butch came to see me. They were pleased that I managed to pull off a ‘plumb’ posting, but Ackerman looked a little put out. He told me that he’d mentioned to the Chief that I would probably have been better placed with Air Despatch. At the time I didn’t understand what he meant by that, an Air Despatch job was another ‘hard to come by’ posting that every one wanted, but no one seemed to get.
I’d been in Fallingbostle for less than a week when my poor standard of education got me noticed. As a tank transport driver, you had to be able to carry out the recovery of tanks. This meant that you had to be able to quickly work out the mathematical calculation of the weight of the tank, against the strength of the transporter’s winch and set up a series of pulleys so that the tank could be winched onto the trailer efficiently and safely. Everyone else seemed to be able to do this quite easily, but not me, I struggled.
The Fallingbostle Garrison had an education unit. I was sent there and academically tested. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time in that unit, having ‘one to one’ tuition in basic English and Maths.
I was enjoying the nightlife in Germany. Senga rang and asked when I would be sending for her. I gave her a date and she made arrangements to fly out. The day before the flight, I thought it through and decided that I didn’t want her around, cramping my style, so I telephoned her and told her about Dianne. After that, I was about as popular as a ‘fart in a space suit’.
Back in the unit, the driving side of the work wasn’t a problem and I soon passed my HGV class one test. I enjoyed the idea of driving a vehicle weighing one hundred and ten tonnes and some forty-foot long, but the rest of the job was boring the pants off me. To get overt it I did a lot of running and exercising. Since my brief introduction to the SAS back in Aldershot I’d got it into my mind to try for selection to this elite unit. My fitness routine would certainly help as much of the selection relied physical fitness. I soon became friendly with the unit PTI’s. They introduced me to Corporal Kenny Booth and Captain Falkner. I’d seen the two of them around the camp, always running with huge Bergens (Rucksacks) full of weights. I’d assumed that they were just fitness fanatics but it transpired that they had decided to go through selection for the SAS. I tagged along with them most days and found that my own state of fitness was moving to new heights. Both of them were former Air Dispatchers and had served with 63 Para. The more time I spent with them the more I missed the excitement of combat soldiering. As for the rest of the lads, they were a real mixed bunch. When they weren’t driving or on exercise, they were down the town getting pissed and fighting with the locals, or, more often than not, fighting each other. It got so bad at the unit that four soldiers attempted suicide, and a fifth went all the way. He was a Welsh lad. I didn’t know him well. His way out was to tie a length of electric flex around his neck, attached the other end to the banister at the top of the accommodation block stairwell and launch himself into space. He’d carried this out in the early hours and was found by one of the boys two or three hours later. I was in the washroom on the top landing when I heard the commotion and went to see what it was all about. I looked over. The body was turning slowly first to the left, then to the right. The stretching the poor guy’s neck well past it’s intended length. The wire had cut into the flesh and was now buried deep inside his throat only bone stopping it from completely severing head from torso. There wasn’t a lot of blood but what there was had run down his body dripped onto the floor and had congealed into thick dark red jelly with pink froth on top. Concern for the welfare of the unit spread to the Garrison Medical Officer who ordered an enquiry into the running of the unit and the moral.
I hated it, and was beginning to dislike Army life when orders arrived posting me to 47 Air Despatch at Lyneham in Wiltshire.
Air Dispatchers, work alongside RAF aircrew and are responsible for ‘making ready’, stores and equipment, to be dropped from aircraft during flight. Many of the Dispatchers are Para’ trained and parachute down to locate and organise Drop Zones and Landing Zones (DZ and LZ). This particular role was the one I wanted as once you were on the ground you became a part of a forward reconnaissance force working alongside special forces. The moment I arrived at the unit I applied for ‘P’ Company. The Chief Clerk, himself Para’ trained was happy to endorse it but pointed out that I had to pass the Air Dispatcher’s Course first, which lasted for six weeks. Not only that, but he also told me that all transfers were on hold as the unit had been called for a four month tour of Northern Ireland and were due to embark in seven weeks.
The following six weeks were great. I worked on Hercules C130’s aircraft, Puma and Wessex helicopters and passed the course without too much trouble. Although the course was mainly ‘school’ based I kept my fitness routine going. The other plus, was that the preferred weapons of the Air Despatch Troop were the 9mm Sub Machine Gun and the 9mm Browning Pistol, the latter becoming a weapon which I felt very comfortable with, so much so, that I represented the unit and won three competitions shooting against the RAF Regiment.
Even though I’d been working on the Air Despatch Course, I’d joined the rest of the Troop in some of the Internal Security Training they were doing for the forth-coming tour. Now, with only two weeks left I joined them full time, and practised riot control drills, weapon handling, arrest and restraint techniques and was introduced to the 4 Ton Humber and the Saracen Armoured vehicles.
…

RAOUL MOAT Copycat killer!

2010-07-08T03:07:00.000-07:00

POLICE KILLER ON RUN LEAVES TRAIL OF DEATH

You could be forgiven for jumping to the conclusion that this headline relates to the unfolding story of Raoul Moat but in fact, it is a headline from a very similar incident in 1982.

The similarity between Moat and his actions are chillingly close to the 82 incident when fugitive and police hater Barry Prudom spent 18 days on the run skilfully using escape and evasion techniques he’d learned from books and survival magazines in his effort to kill as many police officers as he could.

Like Moat, Prudom was a fitness fanatic, and lived a Rambo style existence using the natural surroundings for cover and food as he played out his police killing role.

My mentor and trainer Sgt Major Eddie McGee was a military survival expert and tracker called in by the police to help in the hunt. Eddie led the police to the feet of the triple killer who had used a discarded plastic sheet to construct a hide and shelter within 300 yards of a local police station. Armed and dangerous Prudom lay in wait. McGee used his skills to get so close to the killer that he touched his boot giving the waiting police Prudom’s exact position. Moments later four high velocity shots rang out and Prudom was dead.

Police searching for Raoul Moat would be wise to re-visit the intelligence in the Prudom case as the similarity between the two men is quite bizarre.

WAIT OUT Part 10

2010-06-21T00:34:00.001-07:00

Jock Steen was also passing out, his title of ‘sniper’ being confirmed by the senior instructor at the School of Infantry, in Warminster. During his, twenty-four months of military service, he had excelled with the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Known as a ‘sleeper’ by his PIRA handlers, his true name and whereabouts were known only to O’Brien.
Sniper course behind him, Jock travelled to Liverpool, taking advantage of a week’s leave to meet with O’Brien and a high ranking member of the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army, (PIRA).
Behind tightly closed doors in the Atlantic Hotel, situated in Chapel Street, Steen met and talked with his handlers.
“ You don’t need to know ma name or where am from, It’ll be better if you only have contact with Patrick here,” The PIRA man’s eyes were tight slits cut into his sharp, face.
Jock looked at O’Brien, taking the broad Northern Irish accent as recognition of the validity of the PIRA official. “I understand.” He said.
“ The skills your learnin’ will help our struggle.” The official continued. “The problem is the British have brought in the MI5 to monitor and follow people like me, so we have no alternative but to keep well out of the way.” He pointed to O’Brien. “ Patrick here has no past, as far as the British intelligence knows, so he’s a very important man.”
“You see Jock, MI5 are beginning to gather intelligence from the province,” O’Brien said, “People like,” he hesitated, “well like him,” he pointed to the stranger, “will be watched.” He continued. “ So it’s important that we can keep you, ‘up our sleeve’, so to speak.”
The stranger leant forward, and held Jock’s forearm, his deep eyes penetrated Jock’s soul “ You are a very important member, of a very important team, your skills will be called upon time after time,” He waited for a moment, his voice lowered menacingly, “let us down and your family will feel the consequences.”
Steen’s body went rigid as the words sank in, his eyes widened and he looked into the sub conscious of the PIRA man. “ Make no mistake, if my family are harmed in any way I’ll…”
O’Brien butted in. “ There’s no way your family will be harmed, their safety is not in question. What my friend here means is that you are in a unique position, these people don’t know you as I do Jock, They’re vulnerable, and don’t know who to trust.” He turned to the PIRA man. “ I’m telling you, this man is not the type who would sell to the highest bidder. I encouraged him to join the British Army, up until that point he was for joining any organisation that would right the wrongs of his Catholic family and the death of his Da’.”
Steen and the PIRA man sat back, each respecting the position of O’Brien.
“What have you for us?” O’Brien continued,
Jock sat silent for a moment and eyed the PIRA man. Letting out a sigh, he went to his briefcase and took out a series of lecture notes used on his sniper’s course, and handed them over.
The PIRA man smiled as he noted the pamphlet’s heading…
‘SCHOOL OF INFANTRY
SNIPER TRAINING
(RESTRICTED)
W02 EVANS
FOR OFFICER COMMANDING’
“ This is exactly what we need Jock,” he said as he thumbed the pages, “of course, we will need to supplement this with practical experience.” He looked straight into Jock Steen’s eyes, “ you are our link, can you come up with the goods? Can you train our active service units?”
“ Sure, he can.” O’Brien intervened. “ Make no mistake, he is more than capable of sharing his experiences with our ‘comrades in arms’ aren’t you Jock?”
Steen nodded as he slid his eyes from the PIRA man to O’Brien.
“As O’Brien knows Jock, we are having problems with weapons, most of the ones we’ve recovered from secret stores are old and rusting.”
“What have you got?” Jock was curious.
“ Well, not much, a few Thompson Sub-machine-guns, two M.1 carbines, a Spanish ‘Star’ automatic pistol, and a German Walther P38, a number of .22 rifles, and five .38 Webley’s”
“ Not much to build an Army, eh Jock.” O’Brien was trying to ease the conversation in the wake of the mistrust of his PIRA contact.
“ We’d appreciate your thoughts on the best weapons for the type of work we’re going to be doin’. We were thinking of Belgium FN’s.”
“ Too long and heavy. The M1’s a good weapon, short and light with plenty of power, makes it an easy weapon to conceal, yet has an effective range of three hundred and thirty yards.”
“The ones we have, we got from friends in America they’re second world war issue,” The PIRA man paused for a moment, “no,” he continued I can’t see us getting enough of them.”
“ In that case, I’d go for the Armalite AR-18, an inch longer, weighing in at 7.75 pounds when it’s loaded, the range increases to around five hundred yards, I’d say it was ideally suited.”
O’Brien put his arm around his protégé’s shoulder tugging him a little. He spoke to his Irish contact. “See, I told you he was good!”
The PIRA man’s stern face mellowed slightly as he responded. “You did indeed, and I can see that your trust has not been misplaced.”
“Anything else?” Jock asked.
“Well we are in a position to buy a number of RPG-7 Portable Rocket Launchers, what’s your thoughts on them?”
“ I have no thoughts, I know nothing about them. Just remember to tell your Army whose side I’m on when they start firing.” Jock’s remark broke the ice.
The trio talked late into the night. Steen suggested that weapon training should begin straight away. It was decided that the training could be done along the banks of the Shannon, using the .22’s and the Webley’s, which could be adapted easily to cut down the noise and power.
Although the meeting had a cold start, by 3 a.m., the three had agreed their roles, and Jock Steen was formerly taken into the swelling ranks of the PIRA. Although it would be some time before his existence would be properly announced to other members.
…

Child abduction

2010-06-16T23:54:00.000-07:00

CHILD ABDUCTION

For many years we have been involved in the investigation, detection, location and repatriation of abducted children.

We have a great deal of experience in international investigations and have been involved in delicate and difficult negotiations.

We have a ‘can do’ approach to this type of work and will not be deterred by threat or pressure.

Many of our operators have specialist military and intelligence experience.

We are committed to offering a totally safe professional service in this area.

Kenn Griffiths is available at any time for an informal discussion or to give a realistic appraisal of the work and costs involved.

WAIT OUT Part 9

2010-06-13T06:05:00.000-07:00

…
Jock Steen was also passing out, his title of ‘sniper’ being confirmed by the senior instructor at the School of Infantry, in Warminster. During his, twenty-four months of military service, he had excelled with the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Known as a ‘sleeper’ by his PIRA handlers, his true name and whereabouts were known only to O’Brien.
Sniper course behind him, Jock travelled to Liverpool, taking advantage of a week’s leave to meet with O’Brien and a high ranking member of the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army, (PIRA).
Behind tightly closed doors in the Atlantic Hotel, situated in Chapel Street, Steen met and talked with his handlers.
“ You don’t need to know ma name or where am from, It’ll be better if you only have contact with Patrick here,” The PIRA man’s eyes were tight slits cut into his sharp, face.
Jock looked at O’Brien, taking the broad Northern Irish accent as recognition of the validity of the PIRA official. “I understand.” He said.
“ The skills your learnin’ will help our struggle.” The official continued. “The problem is the British have brought in the MI5 to monitor and follow people like me, so we have no alternative but to keep well out of the way.” He pointed to O’Brien. “ Patrick here has no past, as far as the British intelligence knows, so he’s a very important man.”
“You see Jock, MI5 are beginning to gather intelligence from the province,” O’Brien said, “People like,” he hesitated, “well like him,” he pointed to the stranger, “will be watched.” He continued. “ So it’s important that we can keep you, ‘up our sleeve’, so to speak.”
The stranger leant forward, and held Jock’s forearm, his deep eyes penetrated Jock’s soul “ You are a very important member, of a very important team, your skills will be called upon time after time,” He waited for a moment, his voice lowered menacingly, “let us down and your family will feel the consequences.”
Steen’s body went rigid as the words sank in, his eyes widened and he looked into the sub conscious of the PIRA man. “ Make no mistake, if my family are harmed in any way I’ll…”
O’Brien butted in. “ There’s no way your family will be harmed, their safety is not in question. What my friend here means is that you are in a unique position, these people don’t know you as I do Jock, They’re vulnerable, and don’t know who to trust.” He turned to the PIRA man. “ I’m telling you, this man is not the type who would sell to the highest bidder. I encouraged him to join the British Army, up until that point he was for joining any organisation that would right the wrongs of his Catholic family and the death of his Da’.”
Steen and the PIRA man sat back, each respecting the position of O’Brien.
“What have you for us?” O’Brien continued,
Jock sat silent for a moment and eyed the PIRA man. Letting out a sigh, he went to his briefcase and took out a series of lecture notes used on his sniper’s course, and handed them over.
The PIRA man smiled as he noted the pamphlet’s heading…
‘SCHOOL OF INFANTRY
SNIPER TRAINING
(RESTRICTED)
W02 EVANS
FOR OFFICER COMMANDING’
“ This is exactly what we need Jock,” he said as he thumbed the pages, “of course, we will need to supplement this with practical experience.” He looked straight into Jock Steen’s eyes, “ you are our link, can you come up with the goods? Can you train our active service units?”
“ Sure, he can.” O’Brien intervened. “ Make no mistake, he is more than capable of sharing his experiences with our ‘comrades in arms’ aren’t you Jock?”
Steen nodded as he slid his eyes from the PIRA man to O’Brien.
“As O’Brien knows Jock, we are having problems with weapons, most of the ones we’ve recovered from secret stores are old and rusting.”
“What have you got?” Jock was curious.
“ Well, not much, a few Thompson Sub-machine-guns, two M.1 carbines, a Spanish ‘Star’ automatic pistol, and a German Walther P38, a number of .22 rifles, and five .38 Webley’s”
“ Not much to build an Army, eh Jock.” O’Brien was trying to ease the conversation in the wake of the mistrust of his PIRA contact.
“ We’d appreciate your thoughts on the best weapons for the type of work we’re going to be doin’. We were thinking of Belgium FN’s.”
“ Too long and heavy. The M1’s a good weapon, short and light with plenty of power, makes it an easy weapon to conceal, yet has an effective range of three hundred and thirty yards.”
“The ones we have, we got from friends in America they’re second world war issue,” The PIRA man paused for a moment, “no,” he continued I can’t see us getting enough of them.”
“ In that case, I’d go for the Armalite AR-18, an inch longer, weighing in at 7.75 pounds when it’s loaded, the range increases to around five hundred yards, I’d say it was ideally suited.”
O’Brien put his arm around his protégé’s shoulder tugging him a little. He spoke to his Irish contact. “See, I told you he was good!”
The PIRA man’s stern face mellowed slightly as he responded. “You did indeed, and I can see that your trust has not been misplaced.”
“Anything else?” Jock asked.
“Well we are in a position to buy a number of RPG-7 Portable Rocket Launchers, what’s your thoughts on them?”
“ I have no thoughts, I know nothing about them. Just remember to tell your Army whose side I’m on when they start firing.” Jock’s remark broke the ice.
The trio talked late into the night. Steen suggested that weapon training should begin straight away. It was decided that the training could be done along the banks of the Shannon, using the .22’s and the Webley’s, which could be adapted easily to cut down the noise and power.
Although the meeting had a cold start, by 3 a.m., the three had agreed their roles, and Jock Steen was formerly taken into the swelling ranks of the PIRA. Although it would be some time before his existence would be properly announced to other members.
…

Derrick Bird

2010-06-03T01:15:00.000-07:00

Derrick Bird's multple shootings in Cumbria put my mind back more than twenty years to the day I was interviewed about the shootings in Hungerford. In my mind that event was as new as yesterday's killings. Back then I was writing for Survival Weaponry and Techniques a magazine for the 'would be' survivalist. Hugo Davenport of the Daily Telegraph interviewed me and put it to me that I was teaching military and mercenary techniques and that anyone who wanted to 'make a name' for themselves could use the skills I was writing about to devastating effect! I've thought about that very point hundreds of times since and although I can see the logic my considered opinion now is that it isn't the teacher, the techniques or the weapons it is the person the man, or woman who has to 'vent their anger' show the world that they exist, or simply want to 'have their pound of flesh'.

One of the arguments following these types of incidents is that guns should be banned. Legislation led by similar incidents have seen a tightening of the rules around personal weapons. Hand guns are no longer legally held in private hands. According to the reports Bird has used a shotgun and .22 rifle. Both apparently licensed to him as they are to thgousands of law abiding well balanced citizens across the UK. If Bird didn't have those weapons would he have let what ever motivated him to come to nothing? I doubt it. He would have found another way to make his point. He could have used a home made weapon, a knife, poison, his car. No, my considered position is that allowing individuals to keep guns does not leas to mass killings.

WAIT OUT Part 8 (Boy to Soldier in 6 weks)

2010-05-22T23:26:00.000-07:00

…
Months earlier Steen had no such trouble, he’d had to insist that he wanted to join the infantry, his score being much higher than required. Now, at the end of his training he stood on the Parade Square at the Depot of the Queen’s Division, Bassingbourne, facing the Regimental Sergeant Major. If he was to gain the red over white hackle of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers he had to give a good show on the parade square, if not he’d be ‘back squaded’. Remembering the drill, he marched forward, came to a halt, counted in his head, ‘two, three up’, he saluted, ‘two, three down’, he cut the salute, ‘two three about’, ‘two, three, march, left right left’…Perfect! With six weeks more of continuation training Jock had already made his mark and was tipped as a candidate for the sniper course by the Brigade training staff.

CHAPTER TWO
The Green Army
On 1 August 1971 my train pulled away from Stoke station, I watched as my Mum stood with tissue in hand, crying and my Dad stood, virtually to attention, looking very proud.
Someone once said to me ‘ nothing’s new, whatever you’re doing you can be sure someone else is doing the same’. And it’s true. On that morning I sat with Don Green, we had been to infant and junior school together and now, unknown to me, he too had joined the Army, not only that, he’d put in for the RCT.
Before lunch we both arrived at the Recruit Selection Centre’s, St. George’s Barracks Sutton Coldfield. Up until 1968, this had been the Brigade Depot of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. In fact, the camp adjutant and other staff members were still serving with the Regiment, their red and white hackles proudly worn in recognition.
The selection process was simple, fitness assessment sessions by the Physical Training Corps, medical assessment by the Royal Army Medical Corps and education assessment by the Army Education Corps. The first two I flew, the third I faltered, and once again I saw the error of my ways. All of a sudden, there was a question about my ‘fitness’ to serve. I was taken in front of a young, fresh, faced Captain, who read the assessment notes carefully before addressing me.
“I have the power to send you home, or let you through, why should I let you through?” He looked up, waiting for an answer.
‘Fuck knows’ I thought, but then it occurred to me that I’d really enjoyed the four days of selection.
“Well,” I stuttered, “ I’m very fit, the PTI’s said that, also, I’m very healthy, the Medics said that, and,” I hesitated, “I’ve had a great time here.”
The captain smiled, and pointed to his cap badge. “Do you know what badge this is?”
“No sir, I don’t.”
“It’s the badge of the Royal Corps of Transport, the Corps you want to join, my Corps. Your education is lower than the standard required to become a member.”
“I know sir,” I said, “but my Dad was an Army driver and I know I can do it.”
The pondering routine started, the silence seemed to last forever as the captain thumbed through the training records. He sat back in his chair.
“You win,” he said, “don’t let me down.”
I was delighted. For the first time in my life I felt that this was something I must do.
Don, having attended school regularly, breezed through selection and was sent with me to Aldershot’s Buller Barracks.
Buller was a series of three story, grey concrete, flat roofed buildings forming a square overlooking a paved area. Three of the buildings were accommodation blocks, the fourth the NAAFI, Cookhouse and Junior NCO’s Mess. The Administration block stood alone adjacent to the guard house and armoury.
Our training started the minute we arrived. We had to run, or ‘double’ all the time. We spent the first day running between the admin’ block, the stores and the accommodation block. Thirty-four recruits running in all directions, carrying oversized bundles of kit, reminded me of the activity around an ant’s nest. In the accommodation block, the third floor began the day completely empty and lifeless, as the day progressed the nest was built, the line of four man rooms filled and took shape, everything uniformed and regimented.
I was allocated a room with three guys all from London, Steve Bittner, known as Ruby, Barry Pillar and Carl Jackson, Jacko. From the minute we met, we were mates. Don, who, although he’d grown up on the estate, wasn’t at all street-wise and found it difficult to integrate with his room mates. When he got himself into trouble, which he often did, he’d come to me and I usually sorted it out. I hardly had my kit in the room before Don arrived and tried to swap rooms with one of the Londoners. When he realised that they were having none of it he left the room, returning minutes later.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve just seen.” he said excitedly. “There’s a guy in my room with tits!”
“What are you on about?” I asked.
“Tits Griff, the guy’s got tits.”
Needless to say we were all curious and went along to Don’s room, to see for ourselves. Sure enough, there stood John Mountford, a small guy in his late teens, with a white fresh face, dark copper hair, and a fair pair of tits. He was in the middle of getting changed and was really pissed off when he saw us.
“Ok. So I’ve got tits,” He said in a broad Devon accent, “I don’t know why I’ve got them they just developed.”
“Fucking did they.” Don Joked.
“Take the piss and I’ll take yore fuckin’ head off.” Mounty wasn’t kidding.
Don made his way to me, he was just about to come out with one of his inappropriate comments when Barry Pillar stepped in. At six and a half foot, weighing near on fourteen stones people listened.
“ Hang, on, we’re supposed to be a team, if we’re not, we wont get through the training.”
“ Just so you know, the Medics at the Selection Centre are arranging for an operation to have these removed.” With that, ‘Mounty’ closed the door on the conversation.
The following morning set the routine for the next six weeks, up at 6.00 a.m., wash and shave, strip the beds and arrange the bedding into a ‘bed block’, made by folding the sheets and blankets in two foot squares, and arranging them in order, grey blanket, white sheet, grey blanket, white sheet, grey blanket, the resulting sandwich being wrapped with the last grey blanket. A perfect square surmounted by two pillows and placed at the head of the bed on top of a bright coloured ‘counterpane’ which was stretched so tightly over the bed that a coin could be thrown down onto it and spring back to the thrower’s hand. A test, the inspecting officer often used. That done, individual lockers were next. A photocopy plan of the layout was passed around the room. Clothing folded twelve inches by twelve inches, shaving and boot cleaning kits placed in an exact pattern on the shelves. Every locker an exact replica of the next. Floors were swept and polished by swinging heavy metal weights covered with cloth, known as ‘bumpers’. Finally the toilets and wash rooms were made ready, black toilette seats and sink plugs polished with Kiwi boot polish, seats lifted, plugs in unison placed on the right side of the sink. Everything ready for the 7.15 a.m. inspection by the training staff and the duty officer. One thing out of place, one spec of dirt and the whole ‘platoon’ would be made to completely ‘gut’ the block and start again, working into the early hours of the morning to meet the required standard by the next day’s inspection.
Block inspection done we made our way to the parade square being ‘called to order’ at exactly 07.30 a.m. The Regimental Sergeant Major watching with hawk eyes as we came to attention and opened our ranks for inspection. The drill sergeants and training staff walking behind the officers as they inspected every ‘soldier’. The form was the same, day after day, a dirty beret, a twisted boot lace, a smudged uniform brass, or any other little error would land you on fatigues, usually working in the cookhouse, cleaning refuge bins or stripping and cleaning weapons in the Armoury.
Although a Corps, and therefore supposedly less of a soldier, more of a tradesman, the RCT worked on the basis that you were a soldier first and a tradesman second, the training staff were mainly former parachute’ or ‘all arms commando’ trained and so took their soldiering very seriously indeed.
One particular morning, I found this out to my detriment. I hadn’t taken the normal care over my appearance, as I should have done, and a tiny piece of cotton was hanging from one of my shirt buttons. The duty officer pointed at it, glanced to his side, making sure the drill sergeant had seen it and walked to the next man without uttering a word. He didn’t have to, as the sergeant said it all for him.
“What the fackin’ ‘ell is this?” he bellowed. I looked down. “Stand still.” His face was centimetres from mine, I could smell last night’s stale ale as he spit the words in my face. “Break rank, and sort it out.” If he’d have said break wind I could’ve coped, but break ranks? I stumbled around. His face went bright red, veins were pushing through his neck. “Stand to attention you ‘orrible little piece of shit, who do you think you are, a fackin officer.” I was pissed off and he could see it. “Don’t you fackin’ look at me in that tone.” He slid his ‘pace stick’ behind my neck and pulled me forward. “We’ll fackin’ teach you boy, move it…left. Right. Left. Right.” He marched me away at a pace that was so fast I could hardly manage it. He was running alongside, bending forward, watching my every move. The rest of the parade stood motionless. Once again, his face was in mine. “Swing those fackin’ arms.” I tried. “If you don’t swing this arm,” he prodded my right elbow with his stick, “I’m going to rip it off and stick the wet end in your Fackin’ ear.”
‘Comical cunt,’ I thought.
Moments later we arrived at the Armoury. The REME Armourer, a small, blonde, barrel chested corporal greeted us.
“Morning Griffiths,” back again are we.
“Yes Corporal Card,” I said as I stood to attention.
“Work here until after the parade, then join your squad, and report back here at 17.00 hours, you can do some extra duty.” The sergeant ordered.
I’d spent so much time cleaning in the Armoury in the first two weeks of my training, mainly due to my fooling around at the wrong time, that Cpl Card and I were becoming good friends, I was also becoming very proficient in all manner of weapons.
The day had started bad, and it didn’t get any better. Having rejoined my squad, I went back to the armoury, with them and signed out several General Purpose Machine Guns, (GPMG’s). As always we doubled there and back only stopping when we entered the ‘skill at arms’ wing. Sergeant Bob Ackerman and Corporal Chalky White were waiting for us, Minutes later we were deep into the working parts of the weapons, learning how to strip, clean and assemble them. My time in the armoury was put to good use, as I easily stripped and reassembled, to the delight of my mates. I was a ‘cocky sod’ and once again went into play mode to the annoyance of Sergeant Ackerman. I was lying behind the weapon and engaged in a conversation with Don, as Ackerman was in full flow explaining the working parts of the gun. Without breaking sentence he picked up the chalkboard rubber and threw it, accurately hitting me on the head. It was a painful blow and, in a school type reaction, and without thinking I went for him, stopping myself well before I came into contact. Despite this halt, the die was cast, Ackerman took it for the challenge it was.
“You’ve got two choices here son, he said “we either go to the guardroom or you carry on and we’ll finish it behind the assault course wall!” Ackerman was not joking.
I looked him up and down, he stood about five foot eleven inches, in his early thirties, his face was brown and worn, making him look older. He was a very fit guy and judging by the way he stood and his coolness, he’d seen a bit of action. I didn’t realise how much at the time, had I have done, I might have chosen the Guardroom. But I didn’t…I Still fancied myself as a bit of a fighter.
“The wall.” I said.
We went outside and walked over to the assault course, Ackerman was a couple of paces in front of me as we went behind the wall and out of sight of any prying eyes. Typically, I took the advantage and as he was turning to face me, I aimed my boot at his groin. He was hellish quick and stepped out of the way. I’d committed my self to the kick, having missed, I hit the wall, the pain as my toe smashed into it radiated straight up my leg and into my hip. That was the only chance I had. He gave me no time to recover and came at me with a degree of expertise I’d not come across before. He did just enough damage to teach me a lesson, in fact he broke my nose. It was the first time it had been broken, and it hurt like hell. I couldn’t remember much of what went on, as it all happened so quickly. I do remember noticing the wings neatly sewn onto his shirt sleeve as we were walking back, and I recall thinking that they were an unusual shape, that is, not the same as those supplied by the Parachute Regiment. It was some time later, that I found out that these were the wings of the Special Air Service. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if I had known, as at the time I’d never heard of the SAS.
If we weren’t on fatigues, guard duty, cleaning the block or preparing for a last minute show parade on Friday nights we would go down to the NAAFI disco. This was a great night out only spoilt by the fact that most of us were so exhausted that we fell asleep before the end.
A few hundred yards across Buller’s sports field stood the Women’s Royal Army Corps, RCT attached quarters, a building full of young women. Most of who, like us, were looking for a good time. Friday’s Disco was that time. I’d already made a lot of friends there, and now, three days after the fight, I stood by the Bar, the girls were dishing out sympathy, stroking my swollen nose and blackened eyes. I was lapping it up when Ruby Bittner tapped me on the shoulder and nodded towards the entrance. I looked up and saw Ackerman with another rough looking guy approaching. Following the incident I had to go down to the medical centre and so this was the first time I’d seen him since. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. I was sure, however that the two of them had singled me out and were now heading straight for me. I really didn’t feel like another fight but took a breath and stood my ground. Ackerman’s face cracked wide open with a huge smile.
“This is the boy Jock,” he said, “he’s got a lot of bollocks.”
‘Jock’, stuck his hand out grabbing mine, he had a grip like a vice. He was little, about five foot five of six, but well stacked and looking both hard and fit. “You’rrr right laddie?”
“Sorry, I didn’t get that.” I replied.
“Yourrr nose, is it ok.?”
“Oh, yeah fine.”
“What you having to drink Griff?” Ackerman asked
I was taken by surprise, “I’ll have a Newcastle Brown, thanks.” I stuttered
“By the way, meet Sergeant Major Jock Currie, he’s on the training team at Browning.”
Browning Barracks, was the home of the Parachute Regiment and stood across the road from Buller. I was impressed, two Senior NCOs coming into the disco to buy me a drink. I could see the rest of the disco contingent were equally impressed. My status was gaining height by the second as the three of us finished our drinks. Ackerman and Currie decided that they’d continue their drinking bout down the town. I would have liked to go but, the town was out of bounds to new recruits, until after the fifth week when you’d passed the ‘skill at arms’ section of the training. As the two men were leaving Currie was stopped by a lovely looking girl, she was short, had very long dark hair and a wonderful figure. I watched as Jock put his hand in his pocket and handed her a pound note. She threw her arms around him and went back to her dancing, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, she was very sexy, she danced in a circle with her mates and then went over to the bar. I headed for the bar.
“Hi,” I said, “I see you know, old Jock Currie then.” Talking as if I’d known him for years.
“Yeah, do you know him from Browning?” she asked.
I toyed with the idea of saying yes, as it seemed to me, that most of the girls thought the Para’s were something special, but I thought better of it, “No, Ackerman.” I replied.
“ Oh, Uncle Bob.”
“Uncle Bob?”
“Well he’s not really my uncle, but I’ve known him for years, My Dad, Sergeant Major Currie, is his best mate.”
I was pleased I’d decided not to go down the Para’ route. A couple of drinks, and a lot of talking later I decided that I wanted to see more of nineteen year old Senga Currie. In fact, I saw a lot more of her the night after.
I’d arranged to meet her outside the Queen Alexandra Royal Army Nursing Corps barracks, which lay over the hill leading down to Aldershot town centre. It was a well known meeting place as most of the ‘squadies’ ended up with the nurses sooner or later. It was a warm night and we walked over to the training area. I’d already spied a secluded spot for just this type of encounter, when I’d been on one of the daily training runs. A favourite of the PTI’s (Physical Training Instructors) was to run the recruits up and down a steep sandy hill, known as ‘heartbreak hill’. The top of the hill lay just off the road and was easy to get to. In the scrubland around it lay several old concrete bunkers, one had my name on it, and I was in there like a shot.
“It’s dark.” She said.
You’re dead right it’s dark I thought. “Yeah,” I said “but with your Dad being so well known and all, I thought we’d be better having a little kiss and that out of sight.”
“And that?” She asked with a sparkle in her eyes.
‘And that’ happened minutes later on a concrete block. It sealed a relationship that would continue through my training and beyond. I didn’t tell her I was engaged, but then I didn’t tell Dianne back home in Stoke about Senga either.
The morning after I was back into the training routine. Another favourite of the PTI staff was for the squad to run the assault course carrying one of the team. It was my turn to be carried. The lads lifted me up carrying me on their shoulders. One of them, a tall thin ‘loafer’ named Geordie Needle, who no one liked, was hanging back and keeping us from attaining the time set to do the task. We could all see that his attitude would get us extra PT. Barry Pillar grabbed him and pushed him to the carrying team, he argued a bit and then took hold of me. In his temper, his hand missed my shirt and he grabbed a wedge of flesh on my side. I yelped as the pinch set in, and lashed out with my fist, hitting him on the ear. The training team, had made it clear from the start, that any physical aggression between recruits would be sorted, there and then, with the boxing gloves. Sure enough, one of the PTI’s saw the incident and stopped the run. The gloves were always carried and seconds later the lads lined up the to make a boxing ring. As my gloves were being tied, I looked across at Geordie. For the first time I noticed how long his arms were, they swung by his knees. I had a slight doubt about the outcome of this, the doubt got worse when the PTI announced that there was to be no kicking biting, wrestling, or blows below the belt. Gloves tied we were called to the centre, the rules explained, simple first down or bleeding loses.
“Now touch gloves.” The PTI said.
I didn’t bother and pushed past the stunned instructor, to launch my attack. Geordie didn’t stand a chance. I hit him with a hail of punches until he went down. The PTI staff were not amused, two of them pushed me out of the ring, stood me up and gave me the biggest bollocking I’d ever had, each reminding me about sportsmanship and fair play.
‘Who ever heard of fair play in a scrap’ I thought. They obviously had, and to prove it they now ordered the rest of the squad to strip me, which they did. Geordie was the custodian of my clothing and was told to run across the playing fields and back to Buller. This he took great delight in doing as the playing fields were full of WRAC and QARANC’s enjoying a joint games day. Every woman out there laughed and jeered as I ran past, my hands tightly clasped between my legs.
I was beginning to learn. The Army was winning, slowly transforming me from a streetwise lout to a trained soldier. I knew I had changed, when, one day, Don was well into his out of place banter routine and once again turned his attention to Mounty’s tits. This time we were all in the block going through the cleaning and polishing routine. Mounty was bending down without his shirt on. His breasts were hanging loosely. Don walked up and slid his hand down tickling the left one. Mounty went berserk, and launched himself at Don, who, true to form came running to me. This time though, I said nothing and moved aside giving Mounty a clear view of his prey, and he took advantage, smacking Don straight in the mouth. He went down like a lead balloon and lay semi-conscious on the floor. Mounty walked away, cool as you like, without saying a word. Don came around and weakly gave an apology to Mounty. Like most people in the forces, Don learned his lesson, the out of place banter giving way to a more acceptable verbal exchange from then on.
For those who can’t, or won’t learn the lessons, the Army weeds them out. And at the end of the fourth week two recruits had been discharged, two had been ‘back squaded’ and one was in hospital having fallen off the assault course wall and broken his leg.
Thirty of us boarded the transport for the fifth week ‘skill at arms’ tests on Salisbury Plains. A failure here meant either being back squaded or out all together, a pass meant a week-end leave and a travel warrant home, and of course the big prize, being allowed in to Aldershot town.
For five days we lived and worked under combat conditions, sleeping out in the open, digging fire trenches, eating compo’, rations, warmed on makeshift stoves. All the soldiering skills we’d learned in Aldershot were now put to the test. We spent hours, live firing on the ranges, using a host of weapons and grenades. Throughout, we were in full combat kit and camouflage. Every night saw us in a new location, ‘digging in’ and posting sentries in rotas of two hours on and two hours off, throughout the night. The training staff posed as our enemy, throwing thunder-flashes and setting ambushes and booby traps. In four days, we hardly slept. On the fifth and final day, we were tested…
At 5.00 a.m. a thunder-flash landed, the explosion signalling the need for a quick evacuation from the camp. Without time to recover from the un-timely exodus, we went strait into a forced, march and run, over a ten mile route, carrying full kit, and map reading our way around, then onto and over the assault course, each of us carrying one of the guys for two hundred yards, before a run down to the ranges and firing, at an assortment of targets from different distances, ending up with, an attack and capture of the training team’s transport. The lack of sleep and poor diet took its toll. We were absolutely bushed before we started, by the time we’d finished, we were, well fucked! I loved it and excelled throughout.
The day after I arrived home on leave and went straight to the pub. I suppose I should have gone to see Dianne, but couldn’t be bothered, although we were still engaged, I didn’t have much time for our relationship.
In the pub several of the old gang were there, sitting at the same table, talking about the same things. I had lost weight and gained muscle, I was smart, tanned and full of it. I lasted an hour before I realised that I was talking a different language, from a different planet. I went to see Dianne.
I hadn’t told her I was coming home, so she was surprised when I turned up. Her parent’s had gone to the local Working Men’s Club for the normal Saturday night cabaret. We took the opportunity and went to bed. It was nothing special, but then again, neither was the relationship. I was making love to Dianne, thinking about Senga, it was absurd, but I carried on, as you do.
Later, I sat with her and watched the TV news, it was full of reports from Northern Ireland. The British Government had introduced internment, and troops were coming under increasing violence as the problems escalated. Being in the Army meant that the general talk centred around armed conflict. Earlier in the year, the first British soldier, had been shot and killed as he patrolled the streets of Northern Ireland. Every time we picked up a weapon, the staff reminded us that our lives may depend on how good our weapon handling was. It hadn’t really meant that much to me but now, on leave, people were asking me how I felt about serving in Ireland and I began to realise the importance of it all. Dianne’s Mum and Dad were no exception, when they returned from the club their conversation was about nothing else. Dianne, took the whole thing to heart and was openly worried about me. So much so, that she shed a tear as we kissed good night.
My parents lived about a quarter of a mile away from Dianne. As I walked home, I reflected on the few weeks I’d been away and how things had changed. The Army in Belfast hung in the back of my mind, overshadowed by the thought of one more week of basic training and my need to succeed to my passing out.
On Friday of the following week, my family arrived at Aldershot to watch my passing out parade. We didn’t have a car so my Dad hired one and packed it full, with my Mum, Sister, Brother in Law, Grand Mother and Dianne, very dodgy, as Senga had also decided to turn up.
They all watched with delight as I marched around with my squad, to the beat of the Corps of Drums band. The Corps’ tune, ‘The Waggoner’ reminding my Dad of his former service.
Passing out, completed we marched off the parade square and lined up out of site of the public. The Drum Major addressed us, and asked if anyone could play the drums.
Don stuck his hand high in the air. “Yes Sir,” he said “I can, I used to play with the Boy’s Brigade.”
I often wondered whether Don regretted that, as following our three week leave, he was put into the Corp of Drums and spent the next six years beating his drum at Buller and every Military Tattoo and Passing Out Parade the Drum Major could find.

Wait Out part 7

2010-04-26T06:07:00.000-07:00

…
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

WAIT OUT Part 6 (Boy Soldiers)

2010-04-11T05:12:00.000-07:00

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.

WAIT OUT part 4

2010-04-05T01:06:00.000-07:00

“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.
…

Wait Out Part 3 (terrorists target school leavers)

2010-03-29T00:43:00.000-07:00

Dr Patrick O’Brien could see no bad in young Jock Steen. “He’s a fine boy,” he’d say in response to his colleague’s protestations. Even when Jock brought his BSA 22 air rifle into school and expertly despatched the school cat’s kittens O’Brien defended him,

“Well the cat’s a dammed nuisance, any more would be too many. And the lad’s a good eye with the rifle”.

As School Head, the staff were in no position to argue with his logic.

O’Brien’s passion for his beloved Armagh, and the Irish struggle, was barely tempered by his need to present his History lessons in unbiased sessions. Jock and his cousins relished the stories of the 1921 uprising and the defeat of British rule. Quotes from rebel songs were answered by the cousin’s tuneful renditions. Jock felt proud, and soon followed their lead.

During the summer of 1968, Jock stood with his Mother and Headmaster, and watched as his cousins departed for ‘a better life in America’. Three weeks earlier they had returned to Belfast, where, unknown to Jock, they had joined the swelling ranks of the IRA’s splinter group, the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army. Dr Patrick O’Brien, realising the potential, had been the instigator of the enlistment and now waved goodbye, having secretly briefed them to ‘further the cause’ by acquiring finance and weapons from the sympathetic American Catholics. That done, he turned his attention to Jock…

“ Ah well, tis good luck to them boys, I’ll wish.” O’Brien said as the train pulled away.”

“It’s very kind of you to come down to the station to see the boys off Mr O’Brien”
“It’s a pleasure indeed Mrs Steen. I’ve known these boys for a long time, and had many a good lesson with them, not to mention by them. And, I have to say it’s a pleasure meeting such a lovely lady as yer self”

Agnes Steen’s tiny drawn face cracked, she dipped her head letting her dark brown hair hide her embarrassment,

“Well, you’ve got the gift of the blarney I’ll say that furr ya” she giggled.

O’Brien cast a cheeky glance. Agnes caught the glint in his eye. For the first time she took notice, at forty-five, he stood tall and slim, raven black hair shadowed his craggy features. She looked at her son, he was similar, she thought, but she knew, there’d never been such a glint in his cold eyes.

“I’ve not managed to get to school on open days, I’ve had to work”, she said apologetically, “how’s he doing? ” She asked.

“He’s doing just fine. In a couple of months time he’ll leave with a lot of knowledge under his belt. He’s a fit lad, he’d do well in the forces”. His attention turned to Jock, “ Any ideas about the future?”.
“I’ve a mind to go with them”. He gestured towards the fading train. “I’ll no join the British forces though!”

“Just a thought,” O’Brien said as he wrestled with his jacket’s inside pocket, eventually producing a tatty brown paperback book, which he handed to Jock, he continued, “Have you ever heard of Baden Powell?”

Jock replied without hesitation, “Och aye, he’s the Englishman who started scouting.”

“Indeed he did, but he did a whole lot more besides. Read the book, young man I’d like to have a word with ya about it in the future.”

He took the book without question, knowing full well that if it was recommended by his teacher and mentor, it must be worth reading He looked at the faded cover and read the title to himself, ‘MY ADVENTURES AS A SPY by LORD BADEN-POWELL,’ puzzled he looked back at his mentor.
A smile moved across the Doctors face, “Read it.” He said as he winked his eye.

…

Wait Out part 3 (is it true?)

2010-03-21T03:43:00.000-07:00

I, on the other hand, feared one person, my Dad. He was a big man, not just in stature; his presence filled any room. Despite his size, he was as quick as lightening, and struck just as effectively. As John Brown found out, one Saturday afternoon…
I was twelve at the time and had just had my first proper sexual encounter with John’s twenty three-year-old girlfriend, Christine. I say ‘proper’ as from an early age sex was very much a part of our gang culture. That and nicknames that is. Having said this I never had a nickname although most of the gang did, Jeff Amor was Jed, Tony Rowley, Rolls and Peter Humphries, Pump. Many other lads joined our gang but we were the core. To become a ‘bona fide’ member, the initiate had to stand perfectly still whilst an existing member thumped him in the face. At such a young age, the damage was minimal. Once a member we were inseparable. Even in our sex life, we were inseparable.
As early as eight, Jed and I used to trample down a path through the summer fields of Rosebay Willow Herb and four foot long grasses which encircled the grounds of Hanley High, Boys School, situated on the edge of Bentilee, Europe’s largest council estate. At the end of the path, out of sight of any prying eyes, we pushed down the vegetation to form a sort of crop circle. In this area, we placed the girls Susan, Janet, Sandra and Gail. Others would come along from time to time, but these were the favourites. At twelve, their bodies were just about ripening. Some would have better breasts than others, so when we were fondling we would ‘mix and match’, feeling the tits of one and fingering and poking another. When we’d had enough, Jed and I would sit at the entrance and await the arrival of the boys. They’d all want a look and a feel so we charged them three pence for the privilege of visiting our girls. All the girls living on the estate were fair game, even the very young ones weren’t allowed past our houses without first pulling their knickers down to give us a look.

John Brown’s Christine was special though; I’d known her for years. She lived with her parents at the back of our house until she was twenty, then she left home and rented a Council flat in the next street. Although very close, it was a street I had little to do with, until I changed from Junior to Senior school. The trip to Berryhill Junior High took me straight past her door. As I’d already decided that school was not for me, I took the opportunity to take off as much unofficial time as possible. Unfortunately, I was the only gang member to go to Berryhill. The rest went to a school in the opposite direction. This was due to my being expelled from their school, in the first week, for an assault on the art teacher who I hit when he stood between me and John Goodwin, just as I had Goodwin in a great position to ‘nut’ him square on the nose. So as not to give the truancy game away, I used to leave home walking in the direction of my school and then double back to meet up with the gang. We did this virtually everyday, meeting at a lamppost across from Christine’s flat. She worked as a croupier in a local casino and would often be looking through her window as we met up. Over the weeks, she nodded, we waved, she smiled, we giggled, she spoke to us, we responded, shyly at first. She was tall, very slim, and attractive with long, wavy brown hair. As we took more time off school, she would let us stay in her flat, out of sight of Bob Stoddard, the local ‘school board man’. As time went by her conversation turned to our sex life. She would ask us in turn how many girls we’d been with and what we’d done. Over the weeks, the ‘truant’, gang dwindled away, frightened that they would be caught. Being caught was the furthest thing from my mind, and so, I spent a lot of time, talking with Christine. She wanted to know all the details of my sexual encounters; and how I would love telling her. Likewise, she could hardly contain herself as she described her sexual fantasies. When I first visited with the gang, she wore everyday clothes, now, on my own, she would often wear a cheap nylon nightdress, or tight sixties ‘tank tops’ with mini skirts. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if she had worn a trench coat and boots. As far as I was concerned, I was in love. I would fantasise about her at every opportunity. Up until this point though, there was nothing more to it than boyhood dreams.

This all changed one rainy October morning, when I walked to the meeting point. None of the lads were there. I stood in the pouring rain getting absolutely soaked. I looked up at Christine’s window. It was empty. Dejected, I turned to walk away, there was a knock, I looked up to the window, Christine was there, with a broad, welcoming smile, she beckoned me in. The flat was warm and cosy, a red glow flooded from the wall mounted, three bar, electric fire. Christine left the room and re-appeared in her shortest nightdress, clutching a large, white, bath towel. She carefully dried my hair, loosened my clothes, removing them layer by layer, until I stood naked. She patted the towel gently around my rock hard boyhood. I never before, or since, felt anything so erotic. All of my deepest fantasies were being fulfilled. We moved to the bedroom and climbed under the covers. She slowly removed her clothing, helping herself to me as she licked her fingers before stroking herself, moaning, as she approached her climax. She reached out, her hand encircling my hardness, my inexperience showed as I ejaculated with the first couple of strokes. Undeterred, she fondled me back to life, abusing me, time after time.

The rest of the gang were green with envy when I told them.

Many other similar occasions occurred. However, nothing compared with the first encounter. Later the whole thing went horribly wrong when someone told Christine’s boyfriend, John Brown. At twenty-four, John was one of the estate’s hard men. His younger brother, Tony, was my number one enemy. Whenever we met, we fought. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the better of him, although he always came out the worst for his injuries. Nevertheless, lose or not I was determined, I wouldn’t give in, and so our warring relationship continued for many years. Not surprisingly, Tony took advantage of the situation and told his brother where he could find me. Even at twelve, I had a bit of a reputation. John was no fool and planned his attack, just in case. He was a cunning bastard and set me up by arranging for one of my mates to call for me, and to give me a lift on his motorcycle to our favourite, local pub. It was the kind of pub that would serve anyone. My drinks were paid for.

In a drunken haze I was transported from the pub back to the gang’s gathering point outside a series of small shops on the estate. As we arrived, my head was swimming. I swung my leg awkwardly over the seat, steadying myself, as I planted my foot on the swaying ground. I turned to the gang, and met John’s face. He said nothing, smiled, and took a hold of my ‘hipster’s’ belt, as if to admire it. Naturally, I looked down. Seconds later I was on the floor. John, taking the advantage, had drawn back his fist and with all his strength landed it smack on the side of my jaw. I had no time to react, lying on the floor; I looked up as he kicked me full force in the face. The whole thing burst open, blood pouring from mouth, nose and cheeks. Moments later, I was rescued by my Dad’s mates, who were drinking at a nearby pub. They pulled John off me and telephoned for an ambulance. Shortly after reaching the hospital, my Mum and Dad arrived. Dad questioned me, but I couldn’t answer. In the attack my teeth had been forced through my tongue, it was held together by a sliver of flesh and a series of tiny clips put their by a bitch of a nurse. I spent the night in hospital arriving home Friday afternoon. By this time, my Dad had met with his mates and, although he didn’t know the reason, he'd been told that John Brown was responsible. My Mum pleaded with him not to take the matter any further. As always, Dad took no notice. On Saturday afternoon, John Brown walked past our house, Dad leapt to his feet, ran outside, and challenged him, I watched from my bedroom window as John let fly, hitting my Dad Square on the nose. That’s all it needed, Dad retaliated with a hail of blows which absolutely floored John, he hadn’t a hope in hell of a second chance. My Mum pulled my Dad away. John lay on the ground helpless. Dad was white with rage; he pulled away from my Mother, leapt in the air, and stamped on John’s face.
Ironically, many years later, John became a friend of the family, and like so many of the estate’s characters, he spent many years in prison and died alone of heart and lung disease. My Mum and Dad, were two of the seven people who attended his funeral.

Neither of my parents asked about the reason for the attack and I never told them. Likewise, I didn’t tell them three years later, when I went to the local Community Hall where sixties groups like the ‘Swinging Blue Jeans’, and ‘The Searchers’ often played. John was there with his mates. The venue was notorious for gang violence. On this particular Friday night, I was dancing away when I became aware of a commotion by the entrance. I went across, and looking outside, saw a rival gang assembling. I turned to the youth next to me and told him to take a bottle with him as protection. Later, I went outside. The Bentilee gangs had assembled, and were standing around, waiting. The rival gang had come over from another estate at Coalville. Everyone was standing around, no one would start the fight. Out of the crowd a rival gang member came forward and pointed at me.

“This bastard’s packing a bottle,” he said.

I quickly realised that he was the youth I’d spoken to in the Hall. Within seconds, his gang surrounded me.

“Let Titch in” he continued.

The wall parted and in stepped a little fart carrying a black, studded leather jacket. It was like something from a Roman Empire movie. ‘Bollocks’ to this I thought, and threw my bottle towards the wall at face height. A gap appeared and I was through it. Titch swung his jacket, catching me at the back of the head; the pain was awful, seconds later, I could feel the trickle of blood running down the back of my neck. As I ran past the crowds, I glanced towards my gang. The Bentilee contingent were well out of it, none were coming to my aid. In the sea of people, John Brown’s face shone through. The rival gang gave chase; I knew the streets well and dodged into the backs of the houses. The gardens were dark and safe. I dived under a hedge, and looked back. I could clearly make out the figures, of my pursuers, the streetlights illuminating them as they searched. They had no chance. I’d spent most of my life in these gardens, hiding from the local police. Realising they were out of luck, the rival gang turned their attention back to the Bentilee boys. A great battle broke out, I watched in safety. Then, as if Heaven sent, I could see John Brown coming towards me, escaping from the fight and unaware of my presence. ‘Bingo’ I thought, the twat’s here. In the darkness I probed the undergrowth and found half a house brick. I picked it up, waited as he approached, and with absolute timing, I hit him full in the face, he went down like a lead balloon, he never made a sound. The rustle of the hedges was the only indication of my presence. Everything went quiet again and I moved away without a sound.

Two days later I saw John, he had a series of stitches across his forehead, leading over his right eye and stopping at his cheekbone. With his black eyes and swollen nose he reminded me of Chi Chi, the Panda I’d seen on Johnny Morris’ Animal Magic.

….

WAIT OUT Part 1 Cont'

2010-03-14T01:53:00.000-08:00

JOCK STEEN

…Almost a year earlier when I was no more than a glint in my father’s eye, the people of the United Kingdom were mourning the sudden death of the King. Despite this, politicians were promising the nation that better times were on the way. It had been eight years since the end of the war, rationing was also coming to an end, employment prospects were better, and massive Council house building projects gave young families the hope of independence, or so they were told!

In a small poorly lit bedroom in the Gorbals area of Glasgow a thin, pale, malnourished, twenty three year old woman lay, shouting profanities through tight lips, as she gritted her teeth against the pain of the birth of her son. Her first child’s view of life was the unconcerned big, red, round, face, of nurse Cummings, the local, over worked, midwife. Agnes Steen and the rest of Glasgow’s Catholics could have been forgiven for not recognising how lucky they were. Down stairs, eleven members of her family sat huddled together ready to congratulate, or commiserate the father.

John Steen sat motionless, pushed back in the wooden fireside chair, his bony knuckles pushing through white skin, as he clenched his fists in recognition of his wife’s efforts. Despite the cry of the baby s it felt the first hard slap of life, the down stairs room went quiet. So many Catholic children had died in the minutes following their birth, into the deprivation of Glasgow’s back streets.

All eyes found the figure of Nurse Cummings as she entered the room wiping her hands on her apron. Without any sign of emotion she looked up.

“He’s fine,” she said.

Ten years later, young Jock Steen stood with his mother, twin brothers, and baby sister waiting in the hard rain for the town bus. At seven, the twins were already proving to be a handful. It was Jock’s job to keep them under control. As the streets darkened, an occasional car passed by throwing a spray of water onto the long line of grey figures. Despite the soaking no one stirred, a symptom of a life, which reeked defiantly of hardship and grinding poverty.

The journey home had taken forever, as usual; there were no seats on the bus.
Packed in like sardines, the damp air had been filled with cigarette smoke and the unmistakable smell of wet woollen clothing. Jock’s mother virtually collapsed as she opened the door of the tenement, desperate to put her baby down and relieve the pain in her arms, she placed the heavy bundle in the small sink. The past ten years had done her no favours and it showed. Jock had seen most of his family out of work having to rely on state handouts dished out by Protestant local officials, he’d cried as he saw his Dad leave to find work in Belfast, but shed no tears as he watched him cough himself to death from the effects of the Tuberculosis he’d found on the Irish streets. He deeply resented the authorities who had visited his pregnant mother the day after the death and questioned her about the family finances before agreeing to allow her a loan, so that she could give her husband a decent Catholic burial. All in all, Jock had learned the lessons well and was known in the area as ‘streetwise’.

The Irish trip hadn’t been all bad. Shortly after his Dad’s return two of his Irish cousins arrived with their parents and set up home in the next street.

Having settled his mother down, changed the baby, and put his younger brothers in the bath Jock joined his cousins and the rest of his mates under the dark covered alleyways joining the tenement blocks. Minutes later, a group of overall clad men, on their way home from the docks came into view, each smoking a well deserved cigarette, the noise from their heavy steel tipped boots bounced around the bare walls and drowned the boys conversation. As they passed, the boys took up position behind them and followed like a pack of jackals stalking their prey, each anticipating the pleasure to come. The men, knowing the score, threw their half-smoked tabs on the floor, accept one that is, who half turned and shouted to the boys,

“ Ye can fuck off Ye no havin’ mine”.

It didn’t matter, there was plenty to go around. Nevertheless, Jock responded, his voice hardly audible above the harsh sound of steel on granite,

“And you can fuck off you fat bastard”.

The men turned sending the boys in the opposite direction at great speed. Emerging from the tunnel they were laughing and shouting having enjoyed the short encounter. Jock Steen feared no one and it showed.

….

Surviving a New Identity

2010-03-10T01:01:00.001-08:00

CHANGE OF IDENTITY
HOW TO SURVIVE IT

No one changes their identity without good cause. In the UK today it is estimated that there are thousands of people who are living the lie of a new identity.

As a former undercover investigator I have ‘played’ the identity game. Mine was for short periods. However, the problems are the same and being caught out was no less dangerous.

Firstly then, it follows that if you have had to change your identity you have to become a very accomplished liar. Imagine one day you are who you are, the next you have taken on a life that you have never lived. You have a story that you have to make credible but you’ve never had the true experiences of that life story.

From the moment you are given the new identity you have to live it, become the new person. You can not bring attention to yourself, as bringing attention also brings with it curiosity and questioning. By the same token, you can not be too ‘grey’; too much in the shadows, as this will bring even more curiosity. So your survival depends on your ability to continue with your life as though nothing had changed. You have a new name, new persona, and you have to carry this off day in day out, night in night out there’s no let up. You can’t go into areas where you are known, (unless you’ve been given a new face that is) you can’t contact people you love or care for as contacting them compromises them and you.

My experience is that as time goes on you do move into the new you. The problem is that you have to keep your position. In time your real life merges with the false life and your memories start to be unclear, parts of your true life can be revealed especially when you are relaxed. People who know you well in the ‘new life’ can quickly pick up on anomalies in your history. Once doubt starts to come into the new life story it’s time to move on. Staying where you are allows those around you who have a suspicion to test out their concerns about you.

Moving on is no easy option. Usually, those who are subject to long term change of identity are known to the authorities. They are allocated a handler, a person who knows them and is trusted. The handler will help with the interface between the day to day lie and the authorities. They are also there to guide and assist. They can be called upon at any time and are expected to respond without delay.

Anyone subjected to long term changes of identity are likely to experience times of emotional and psychological distress. In the background to new identities there are professionals who can be called on to help as and when needed.

Wait Out part 1 (true or false you decide!!)

2010-03-07T03:40:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER ONE

I hadn’t slept for twenty-seven hours. I was tired and emotionally drained. My watch slid easily around my wrist, my wedding ring threatened to fall off my finger, both were signs of dehydration, signs I’d been used to too many times over the years. Tired or not I’d decided to make the three and half hour drive from Hollyhead docks to Stoke, that way I’d get to see the wife and kids for a couple of hours before reporting to my unit in the south. It was a typically filthy February night, the wind slamming the side of the car with buckets of rain. Twenty minutes from the ferry I was alone, not another vehicle in sight. I glanced into the rear view mirror just to make sure. In the gloom a sunken eyed, long haired, bearded face stared back at me. I smiled to myself, what a hell of a state for a serving British soldier. I’d forgotten what is was like to be clean shaven and wear the Queen’s uniform.

In the summer of 1990, the telecommunication licensing board forced the BBC to move Radio 2 from Medium Wave to FM. From that time on I had a war with my radio, as I tried to listen for more than thirty minutes without having to adjust it to counteract the poor reception. 88-91 FM’s narrow band attracted static like moths to a light bulb. At midnight the battle was in full swing, selection being further hampered by the Welsh mountains, automatic tuning, and the need to keep the car on the road. The radio was winning, in desperation I prodded the band selector hard with my left forefinger and found the BBC’s World Service. The well-practiced announcer’s voice filled the car:

‘TONIGHT IN DUBLIN MICHAEL MAHONE WAS SHOT DEAD AS HE ENTERED A TELEPHONE KIOSK. IT IS BELIEVED THAT MAHONE HAD BEEN HIDING IN THE REPUBLIC FOR MANY YEARS FOLLOWING HIS ESCAPE FROM CRUMLIN PRISON WHERE HE WAS SERVING A LIFE SENTENCE FOR THE MURDER OF A NORTHERN IRELAND POLICE OFFICER AND TWO BRITISH SOLDIERS. POLICE BELIEVE THE PROVISIONAL IRA MAY HAVE BEEN RESPONSIBLE, HAVING CARRIED OUT HIS EXECUTION FOLLOWING AN INTERNAL ROW.’

I was puzzled, this is a ‘load of bollocks’, I thought. The location was right but the name was wrong. Eager to get more information I sent the automatic tuner on its travels, stopping at every encounter with a news reader. None made mention of the killing.
I only heard that report once in my life and to my knowledge it was never repeated.

“ Steen” I said to myself “ you’re dead you bastard”.

Despite the confusion, I was content with the job I’d done, although the announcement left me a little concerned. For the next few miles I tried to put the radio announcement out of my mind, but couldn’t, I had to know. I eased my foot off the accelerator, stretched across to the passenger seat feeling for my mobile telephone. I keyed the first number the cold green keypad light came to life allowing me to quickly dial the rest of the unit’s emergency number. It would have been easier to speed dial but it was against standing orders to have the number stored, although changed regularly the sequence was imprinted in my memory to forget could mean the difference between life and death.

“Hello,” Jenny's familiar soft voice trickled into the earpiece.

“Op’s room please.”

“Wait one, I’ll put you through.”

The line went silent for a moment followed by an ear piercing click as the emergency phone was snatched from its cradle. “Sergeant Davies.”

“Davy,” I said. “It’s Griff.”

“Problems?”

“I’ve just heard a news report on BBC’s world service it mentioned my recent sorte, but the name was wrong. Any thoughts?”

“The media often get things wrong, you know that.”

“Yeh, I know but this doesn’t stack up, I knew the target well, it was definitely the right target.”

“Then don’t let it bother you. You know the score, there’s no sweat here. Where are you?”

“On my way in.”

“It’s probably best if you come straight in, no detours.”

Davy’s pitch changed, it sent a warning message to my brain. “Something’s wrong, isn’t there?”

“Come on in and we’ll talk about it, now’s not the time.”

“I’ll see you later.”

I thumbed the button key to end the call, the line fell silent. I tossed the phone back onto the passenger seat and accelerated away. The tiredness left me. My mind drifted back to the beginning of the operation and then even further. Steen had been around for ever, we both had. According to the intelligence he’d had a hard start in life, but so had I. He was an out and out bastard, an evil piece of shit that needed killing.

Edlington boys are also victims

2010-01-22T04:05:00.000-08:00

I'm not condoning what these lads have done but my experience is that boys like these have come from a dysfunctional family background and as such are themselves abused children. You have to ask the question where was the professional help for these children? I've gathered evidence as an undercover investigator for anti-social behaviour. I've seen the most appalling crimes involving beatings and abuse. I've never had a situation where the perpetrators were not known to the local authority and had a long history of dysfunction and were always children at risk. Social Services and the Local Authorities continually let their service users down. I've known of good social workers who have told their managers about the need to take care proceedings and been told to change their reports to reflect a better position than was reality merely to save money! These lads are victims just as much as the children they have abused.

BEAT THE BURGLARS!

2010-01-22T00:06:00.000-08:00

As a private investigator I have detained seized and restrained burglars, car thieves, shop lifters and escaping prisoners. I have letters of gratitude from the police, prison service and a bravery commendation from the Crown Court. On at least one occasion I was accused of using 'unreasonable force', but this was quickly dealt with and the criminal received a prison sentence.

What's reasonable? It would not be reasonable to beat someone who clearly posed no real threat to you or was not in a position to defend themselves.

My experience and advice is: use reasonable force it’s sufficient to keep yourself safe.

CONFLICT RESOLUTION

2010-01-14T04:06:00.000-08:00

CONFLICT RESOLUTION IN CHILD CONTACT

The Starting point is: does anyone really want to resolve the conflict? Is there a willingness to fix the problem? These may seem silly things to ask but in reality, quite often, resolving conflict means that the warring parties may spend less time together, or not have to communicate as often as they do when in conflict. Conflict can actually be used as a way of keeping in touch thereby not letting go, stalling closure.

If there is a willingness to resolve the conflict then the process should start by taking account of the whole picture and not just your own point of view. This usually involves having to broaden your outlook to take into consideration the other person’s position. One of the major draw backs to this is the assumption that the other person has a brain like yours. They don’t, everyone’s brain is unique, the thought processes are different and to try to get them to process information as you do, thereby coming up with the same reasoning and conclusion as you, is a no brainer.

It usually helps to talk through the needs and concerns of everyone involved. Writing them down gives them a formal feel and allows everyone the opportunity to recognise that their views are properly being taken into the account. It’s important to keep a sense of fairness throughout the negotiations. Look at all the possibilities even the remote ones. Thinking outside the box can often bring about a possible solution. In any event, write down all the possible solution scenarios eventually picking one that gives everyone what they, or at least what they can live with. Keep in mind that everyone should be treated as equal in the process. This is hard if you don’t agree with them. You must keep your feelings under control. It may be worth taking time out if the parties are struggling to come to a united position. Allowing each other ‘emotional calm down’ is an important aspect of negotiation. Allowing and encouraging each person to talk through their feelings and emotions without fear of retribution is the most positive way to work through entrenched positions. Be clear about what the problems are and what needs to change. Do attack the problem but never the person. Work on the positives no matter how slight. Do not allow the negatives to control the discussions. Throughout, keep an understanding of the other person’s position and underpin this by regular acknowledgement of that understanding.

In some cases it may be worth involving a third person: a mediator, but not one that favours a particular side. Any third party should be there only to facilitate good, constructive and positive debate. What you should work towards is a solution that respects the individuals and meets everyone’s needs

Fighting Terrorism

2010-01-12T00:37:00.000-08:00

HELP BEAT TERRORISM!

2010-01-10T03:45:00.000-08:00

AIDE MEMOIRE

The following list gives examples of actions that may be regarded as being suspicious. It is important that you keep vigilant, one piece of action may seem unimportant but when put alongside other “unimportant” information it constitutes a real threat.

TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS THEY ARE THERE TO PROTECT YOU

What to look for:-

Any unexplained interest in the outside of buildings, car parks, delivery gates, doors, entrances.
Groups or individuals taking interest in security provisions.
Anyone taking photographs or video recording (often disguised by second person posing for family photo’).
Disguising physical identity…wearing hoods, hats, turned up collar, dark glasses, motorcycle helmets.
Vehicles parked near to, or outside significant areas for longer that normal periods.
Same vehicles seen in different but significant locations.
Different vehicles same parking positions, same occupants.
People staying in the vehicle for long periods.
Activity not consistent with the location.
Unusual contractor activities.
Unannounced contractors/social workers etc.

If you see something you think is suspect, or see an unusual set of activities report it to your co-ordinator without delay and then write down your reasoning/observations as soon as practicable.

IF YOU CONSIDER THERE IS AN IMMEDIATE THREAT CALL THE AUTHORITIES.

The consequence of a wrong call = a little embarrassment.
The consequence of not calling = Abduction, injury, DEATH!!!

Hostage Survival

2009-12-04T09:53:00.000-08:00

Being kidnapped and kept as a hostage is a terrorist act that has been used the world over and continues to be used in an effort to get the authorities to succumb to the kidnapper’s demands. The problem is the authorities will not meet the demands. To do so would show weakness and prove to the terrorists that kidnapping works. Contrary to popular belief negotiations do go on and hostage negotiators work alongside the intelligence services to try to bring a peaceful solution without giving in to the demands. At the same time special forces seek and find teams are deployed to track down the whereabouts of the hostages and prepare for a rescue attempt.Hostage situations vary and anyone one of us could be taken at any time. If it’s you, the fact that you have not been killed in the first place suggests that the kidnappers have some reason to keep you alive, for the time being at least. This fact is the key to your early survival. Because they have a reason to keep you alive they will hesitate before taking your life. From the second you are aware of your kidnap you should be looking for a way to escape. The longer you are held captive, the more difficult it is to escape. In the first moments of capture you will probably be in an area where there is an element of normality, so if you can effect your escape at this early stage the chances are that you can find salvation and help locally, however, once you are taken away from the area you will probably not know where you are or who you can trust if you do escape.Once the kidnappers have detained you it is normal practice for them to restrain you by tying you up and gagging you. Even when this has been done there is the chance of a quick escape. The way you do this is to present parts of your body to be bound in such a way that the binding can be loosened afterwards. Present your hands in front of your body by keeping the heels of your hands together and slightly cupping them. At the same time keep your hands close to your body with your elbows pushed out. This action causes your wrists to part. Binding you in this position allows you to straighten your arms later, which will push your wrists together, loosening the bindings. Flattening your hands, palm to palm will further loosen them until you can wriggle free. If a mouth gag is being used push your chin on your chest and puff your cheeks out. If it is at all possible, keep your teeth tightly closed. These positions will again allow you to loosen your bindings when you draw your chin, open your teeth and stretch your neck to its full extent. If your hands are being tied behind your back present them thumb to thumb with your palms facing outwards and your arms slightly bent. Once again try to ensure that there is a good gap between your wrists. Turning your hands palm to palm and drawing them up your back will loosen the binding and allow you to slip out. Having loosened your bindings you may be in a position to surprise your captors by escaping from them when they are complacent. Running out of a building into a street full of local people will bring immediate attention to your problem. It would be unlikely that your kidnappers would dare to re-take you in full view of the general public.If you have not had a chance to escape in the very early stages of your captivity the chances are that you will be moved from the initial kidnap site in the back of a vehicle, quite often this will be a car. If you have a mouth gag you will probably be made to lie in the well between the front and rear seats and covered over so that you cannot be seen. If you are not gagged you may be sat in the rear of the vehicle with a guard. In both cases think about escaping by loosening your bindings and quickly opening the door and jumping out as the vehicle moving. Clearly you would be foolish to attempt this if the vehicle is travelling at speed. But, in the middle of a city or town, the chances are that the vehicle will often have to slow down to compensate for other road users. An ideal time to jump is when the vehicle is pulling away from a set of traffic lights. Force the door open and throw yourself out of the near-side, making sure you don’t throw yourself under a passing vehicle. You will certainly suffer cuts and bruises but this will be much better than the problems you will encounter from becoming a hostage. Once the vehicle has left the city etc. it will probably be travelling at great speed and in areas where there are few people. If you miss the early opportunity to escape then the chances are that you will have to wait a very long time before you can spot another window of opportunity.Surviving until the window of opportunity presents itself or you are released will be your priority. In the early stages hostages are often very confused and obviously have trouble coming to terms with their predicament. They are bewildered and feel exceptionally vulnerable. They obviously mistrust their captors and, in group hostage situations there are periods when there is a mistrust of ones self and colleagues. Keeping the mind positively active is a very important part of hostage survival. To allow the mind to dwell on negative thoughts will inevitable sap the will to survive. Never let the mind relax, keep it positively active. This is best accomplished by having a personal project. This may be building an imaginary lavish garden, a luxury home, a rocket, in fact anything that is productive. This doesn’t mean just thinking about the building etc. It means planning every minor detail, the materials needed, the human resources, the actual building of it, brick by brick, plant by plant. In the hostage situation the one thing that the captors cannot take away from you are your thoughts, the inner you. You must keep this part of you totally in your control at all times.In isolation, with minimum human contact there is a feeling of hopelessness that you have to overcome. The only emotional support for you, is you! Living without affection of any kind can eat away at you and it is this that you must always guard against. Political hostages are often forced to make public statements, admitting to a crime against the state or its people, or denouncing a country, its people and/or its politics. Not agreeing with the views of your captors and not wanting to make any statements is in some ways accepted and so the isolation, tiredness and uncertainty are used to wear you down to a stage where you will say and do almost anything. The captors will try everything to domineer. But to completely domineer they have to break you. A way of accomplishing this is to threaten to take your life. Having the courage to accept that they may well kill you and being able to live with that thought without fear takes away the most powerful lever the captors have to force you to conform, to do as they say. Quite often when hostages get to this stage and have come to terms with the possibility of their death they have turned the tables on their captors. It can become a battle of wills. The captor determined to break the hostage, to rule not just the body but the mind as well. The hostage, accepting that there is little he can do to stop the punishments on his body, but resisting every attempt to capture his mind. In these situations the captor losses if he takes the hostage’s life. The result is that the captor will continue to try to break the hostage, making sure he does not die for fear of failure. The chances are that you will be held in a building. Probably not far from a busy street or near to someone who can help you? You must constantly review the best action to take to survive your ordeal. You have to be sure that to escape is in your best interests. It may be the case that you are being held in quite decent surroundings and being treated properly. This may be because there are negotiations going on to secure your release. There certainly will be some action being taken to help you from outside agencies but only you can decide whether or not your life is at risk and that escape is a realistic possibility. Having decided that your survival will depend on your escaping you should prepare and plan your escape if that is possible. If not you will have to play the waiting game until the opportunity arises. Your route out of the building may well include having to drop from a window, low roof or wall. Being able to drop and land properly will lessen the risk of re-capture due to injury. When faced with a high drop, look for the softest place to land, if you can try to cushion your fall with clothing, bedding etc. Where you can, ease yourself over the edge of the drop, making sure you are facing the building, keep one hand holding on until your arm is fully stretched. Look down and pick a safe spot to land. Whilst still holding on, place your free hand on the wall and push away from the as you let go. The push should be enough to keep you clear from hitting the building during the descent. It should also spin you a little so that you face away from the building. Keep looking at the spot you intend to land on. Keep you ankles and knees pressed together and your legs slightly bent at the knees. Push your chin onto your chest and keep your teeth together. Pull both of your hands up to the side of your head. Position yourself to land with the balls of the feet landing first. Do not land heels first. As soon as your feet hit the ground, force your knees to the side. This move combined with the forward force of your body will turn you in such a way that you will roll onto the floor, thereby spreading the impact. By doing this your body will gradually take the force of the landing and greatly reduce the chance of injury. Once you are safely on the ground make good your escape. Tips to avoid becoming a hostage.• Be aware that you could be a target and avoid bringing undue attention to yourself.• If you are in a foreign country dress down and avoid any conflict or debate, especially on the subjects of politics, religion and race.• Do not drive around alone, especially in a local hire car or a car showing foreign license plates.• Only use approved Taxicabs.• When you are on foot face oncoming traffic. This will lessen the risk of a car full of kidnappers coming up from behind you without you knowing, and taking you from behind.• Change your daily routines regularly to make it difficult for anyone to plan your kidnapping.

Private I and Tai Chi

2009-11-12T00:41:00.000-08:00

I spend most of my life in conflict and fear. On any day I can be working alone, tracing people who do not want to be found, then serving them with Court Orders they do not want. Negotiating the release of abducted children. Carrying out close protection work and investigations for prominent people and companies, mediating in disputes and living in dangerous surrounding gathering evidence against organised crime.

My respite has always been martial arts. I'm in my mid-fifties, my mind is in my early twenties!! To keep myself healthy I practice Tai Chi everyday. Today I will spend the morning with one of my Tai Chi Masters and then later I will teach my Tai Chi Class.

As a former soldier and undercover operator I am sure that I have suffered from post traumatic stress and can honestly say that I believe that I would not have been as content and happy as I am without Tai Chi.

In essence, I realised a long time ago that life is difficult; will always be difficult. Believing that things will be 'better' when the kids leave home, when I leave home etc. etc. does not bring total harmony. There will always be difficulties so I just accept that and carry on enjoying the difficult times as much as the 'good' times. I just live, and I love it.

Anti Social Behaviour

2009-11-05T01:15:00.000-08:00

I was one of the first private investigators in the UK to go undercover recording Anti Social Behaviour from kids breaking windows to drug dealing and organised crime.

Last week I was invited to take part in the BBC's coverage of ASBO's (Anti-social Behaviour Orders). Peter Wilson, BBC Midlands Today Home Affairs Correspondent arranged a live interview from a boxing club in Stafford. Typically, the programme ran out of time and my contribution lasted all of 20 seconds. I said nothing! What I wanted to say was that in all the years I have been involved in this type of work both as a PI and social worker I never found any teenager who became ASBO material overnight. There was always a long history. Most cam from dysfunctional families, often from single parents who were struggling themselves, or had been subjected to years of domestic violence. It was obvious virtually from birth that these young people were going to be ASBO fodder. So what exactly does an ASBO do. Well, it gets votes for Government. They put the ASBO up as their demonstration that they are 'dealing' with the problem. They definitely are not! If they were they would have put in appropriate resources at the very first signs of family dysfunction. That is where Anti-Social Behaviour should be tackled. Giving a kid an 'ASBO badge of honour' and expecting that this will have a beneficial effect on behaviour is absolute nonsense. These families have been known to the authorities and professionals for years. They deserved better, These kids were not born with ASBO in their make up they were schooled in it. Many should have been removed from the families. I've spoken to dozens of social workers who have told me that they wanted to removed children who easily met the criteria but were told by their 'masters' not to. Either to keep up the pretence of keeping the numbers of accommodated children low, or saving money. I honestly believe that some of the young people subject to ASBO should sue the government for failing them by not providing them with decent 'pro-active' services for goodness knows how many years.

5 killed

2009-11-04T09:34:00.000-08:00

My day started early, I'd been told that an abducted child I'm trying to locate was going to turn up at the maternal grandparent's home, a cottage in a remote moorland area. I lay in wait, snuggled close to a dry stone wall high above the property to my front and on the edge of a farm field to the rear. KJ and myself took up the FOP (forward observation position) with two of our colleagues some distance away in the LUP (lying up position). It was cold, barely above freezing. It was wet, ground water and drizzling rain. It was grey, slate grey with a pigeon grey sky.

I'd heard on the early news about the soldiers killed by a rogue element in Afghanistan.

My current undercover position and the news merged and forced my thoughts back to the early seventies. I was a soldier then, in a similar position. I was on duty, undercover, watching and gathering evidence on the movements of the IRA. It was a dark wet day as well. I was working with elements of the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers and UDR (Ulster Defence Regiment). My FOP was within an electric sub-station. scattered around were my colleagues, some covering other FOP's and others in LUP's. As I lay there I was suddenly overwhelmed by silence, it was as though the world had stopped, there really was no sound that I could distinguish. My senses were telling me from within that something was about to happen. Moments later I responded as my ears took in the sound of several high velocity shots. As the echo died the sound of a man in pain flooded into me. More shots rang out. I scanned the area but saw nothing. I moved my position, glanced around a huge piece of electric machinery and viewed the site's entry gate. Unusually it was swinging open in the breeze. It should have been locked. The breeze was blowing as if to keep it shut but it was halted, hitting something, then bouncing back only to be driven again by the breeze. I was in the prone firing position and needed to stretch my neck to view the obstruction. In the opening lay the body of one of the UDR guys, writhing in pain. There was no cover between the two of us. I thought about staying where I was but couldn't. I held my breath with fear, stood up and ran to his side. A shot rang out. I threw myself against the casualty. Looking out of the gate I could see the figure of one of the Fusiliers disappearing into the cover of a housing estate. I was confused, where the hell was he going? The shooting stopped, my colleagues joined me. Within minutes I could see a helicopter making it's way to our position. When it landed medics spilled out ready to care for the casualty. No need, to late!

The drone of the helicopter carrying the dead still fills my head. Today, as I recalled my past,the sound seemed even more deafening, then I realised that the farm tractor was on its way down the field towing a trailer spreading manure. In the shit again, I thought.

The fusilier? He had been recruited by the IRA, trained at great expense by the British tax payer and was every bit as much of a rogue element as today's Afghan killer.