WAIT OUT part 12 Troops Deployed to Ireland

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

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.
…

Wait Out part 7

…
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 3 (is it true?)

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.

….