WAIT OUT Part 11 P Company Selection

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.
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