The Loose Screw (7 page)

As I said earlier, I have obviously not mentioned all the members of the platoon. They were all great guys and it was a pleasure, if not an experience, to have had the opportunity to live and work with them. You all know who you are and if you are upset that you didn't get a mention, tough shit. I'll buy you a drink at the next reunion.

Our first duty away from Warminster was the Cardiff Tattoo, which was being held in the grounds of the city's castle. We arrived and were billeted in the university, as the students were on their summer holidays. On arrival, the porter pointed out that there was a bundle of tickets on the reception table that would allow us to gain free entry into some of the city's clubs. He invited us to take one each, but as we were the first group to arrive we told him we would take the lot and asked him to forget to mention it to the others as and when they arrived. So that was us sorted for the next couple of weeks as we divided up the tickets equally between us.

The Tattoo itself, although I am sure it was spectacular for spectators, was nothing but an interruption to our main objective whilst in this lovely capital city and that was to visit as many drinking holes as possible and sample as many different types of alcohol as we could drink. Our last performance didn't finish until about nine o'clock, but luckily we were the first to march off at the end of the big finale.

We used to get on the first bus in line to take us back to the university. Once back on campus we would run upstairs, get changed, splash on a bit of Old Spice and then commandeer another bus on its way back to pick up the stragglers from the castle to drop us off in the town centre en route. We perfected this so well that we would even beat the spectators into the Owen Glyndwr pub where we would start out from each night. We had a good time every night, but no night went by without an incident of some description.

One of the other military units that was also present was the Royal Navy Recruitment team, armed with an impressive 3D replica of one of their destroyers, which was part of their display. We passed this one night at about three o' clock in the morning and decided to dance the hornpipe on it to the Captain Pugwash theme tune. Impressive as it was, it was not designed for such use and halfway through our performance the whole thing collapsed from under us. It was only due to the fact that we were all so pissed that we escaped injury. We had to chuckle the next day when we went past the wreckage on our bus and saw a group of sailors looking puzzled and scratching their heads. We got one of those looks we had become only too familiar with from our boss as he put two and two together.

The Tattoo over, we returned to Warminster. The battalion's primary role at Battlesbury Barracks was to carry out its duties as the infantry demonstration battalion. For the lads in the rifle companies it was a very monotonous role. They spent hours day after day performing the same demonstrations of new infantry weapons and machines to international audiences as well as putting recently qualified young officers through various tactical scenarios to prepare them for when they would take up their new posts as platoon commanders.

My platoon's primary role at that time, however, was to carry out various ceremonial duties all over the country, such as the one we had just done in Cardiff. Although this was at times fun and it gave us the opportunity to visit many different places, it was also very tiring and at times boring due to the long hours spent on coaches and living out of suitcases. Apart from anything else, unlike the members of the Peninsula Band who accompanied us on such duties, we as buglers were primarily trained infantry soldiers and we missed being able to act as such.

It was not long, however, before our tour of duty at Warminster thankfully came to an end and we began to pack up in readiness for our move to Dover. The whole battalion was looking forward to our new posting. We were due to become part of the air-mobile force and could look forward to some real infantry work once again. We also had some good tours coming up such as Canada and for me and many of my fellow young soldiers our first emergency tour of Northern Ireland.

In August 1988 we arrived at Connaught Barracks, which is situated at the top of the hill in Dover overlooking the town's impressive castle. We took over from the Irish Rangers who were full of typically rowdy, fiery Irishmen who liked nothing better on a Friday night, or any night come to that, than a good drink followed by a good punch-up. For this reason alone, although the Green Jackets were not particularly known as the best regiment to have in residency, we were welcomed by most of the town's landlords who had previously refused entry to many of our predecessors.

The nightlife in Dover was better than Warminster purely because of its port and the mix of people who passed through it. There were three main pubs in the town's centre. The Elephant and Hind in the Market Square was where most nights would begin. Then there was The Dover Tavern, which was my favourite because it was a real 'spit and sawdust' bar and at the time was run by fat Duncan. And finally there was the slightly more upmarket Britannia, which actually had a fully fitted carpet in it. As I say, we quickly settled into our new posting and as a platoon we settled into our new role, which was back in B (Support) Company where you found the battalion's Mortar, Milan and Machine Gun platoons. My old mate Garry was in Mortar platoon at that time, and as during our posting in Warminster Support Company he had been billeted in Netheravon Barracks we had not seen much of each other apart from when on leave.

It was about this time that I and Natasha had finally separated during an emotional night whilst I was on leave. We had separated a couple of times before during my training, but always got back together when we met up again later. This time, though, such reconciliation seemed unlikely as she appeared a little more definite on this occasion. I remember feeling as if I had lost part of myself as I walked from her house in Glenforth Street, Greenwich early the next morning. Despite our problems she had been a tower of strength to me, but maybe I did not give her the attention she deserved and needed at the time. I did, however, know how much I truly loved her and wonder how I would cope without her in the future. I was sad, too, that I felt I would never see the rest of her family again, as I had grown very attached to all of them.

Natasha's mum, Dorothy, or Dot as everyone knew her, was and still is a marvellous woman. She is originally from Portrush in Northern Ireland and was blessed with a great Irish sense of humour as well as that nation's well-known hospitality. I had known Dot for some six years at this stage and considered her to be like my own mother as she had virtually brought me up with her family since the age of fourteen. Also I would miss Natasha's sisters -Nikki, who I mentioned earlier, and her youngest sister Samantha, or Tiny as we called her. Tiny and I got on really well. She could only have been about eight years old when I first met her, but I used to get more letters from her than I did from Natasha sometimes, and she always looked pleased to see me when I came home on leave.

I was to see Natasha once more before I left for my first tour of Northern Ireland when I met her in The Napier Tavern in Greenwich. She told me later that she was trying to see if we could make another go of it at that meeting, but the truth of it was that I was still hurting after our last parting and couldn't bear to go through the same feelings again. We both parted that night and hoped that the other would subsequently make the first contact. For some possibly childish, stubborn reason, neither of us did. It was to be an act I would live to regret forever and it would be some nine years later before we would see each other again.

Around November 1988 the battalion began its Northern Ireland training in preparation for the forthcoming tour to Fermanagh. I for one found this training the best thing I had done in the army to date. It was training for real to prepare us for a real-life scenario unlike the usual made up 'Russian' enemy we seemed to be fighting a constant battle with on training areas all over England.

Just before the training began, I had another pleasant surprise in the form of the arrival of my other old pals, Simon Long and Steve Fairs at Dover. Simon had been posted in from Germany to join the battalions REME detachment, and Steve had volunteered his services from the Third Battalion Royal Green Jackets to help our own battalion get up to strength for the Ireland tour. This was great -the old gang was back in business. Simon's mum, Trisha, was none too pleased when she heard that all her 'boys' were going to Ireland together and didn't stop worrying or lighting candles at her local Catholic church for us until we all returned safely.

The training itself was split into three phases. Phase one was the live firing phase during which we fired all manner of different weapons on a wide variety of different ranges at the army ranges along the beaches at Lydd and Hythe. Phase two was the urban warfare training, which comprised endlessly practising how to patrol in built-up areas and react to various incidents and threats and learning various other tasks that we would need to carry out such as setting up vehicle checkpoints and searching both people and vehicles. The final phase was to be held in the bleak Norfolk countryside where we would master the art of rural patrolling and reacting to various incidents in conditions similar to those we would encounter in Fermanagh.

For the purpose of patrolling in Northern Ireland each platoon is split into two groups, one led by the platoon sergeant and one by the platoon commander. These two groups in turn are split into four-man teams made up of a lance or full corporal and three riflemen. My team was under our new platoon sergeant, Stan Bowes, who like myself was from south London but unlike myself was an excellent boxer who actually trained the very successful battalion boxing team for a number of years. He was also a very good soldier with many years of experience and previous tours of Ireland under his belt, so as a relatively inexperienced platoon we could not have wished for a better man to lead us. My team commander for the forthcoming tour was Corporal 'Ginge' Naylor, a highly experienced and dedicated man who truly loved the army and as such was both an excellent soldier and an extremely good and loyal friend. Ginge was an inspiration to us as a relatively young and inexperienced team, and we were to learn a lot from him and he was to become one of my closest and most trusted friends.

Some years later I was devastated to receive the news that Ginge had collapsed and died in Cyprus while performing a short three-mile run while undergoing a rigorous personal training programme in preparation for his participation in selection for the SAS. I know it had been a dream of his for many years to complete selection and I found it difficult to comprehend that such a fit, experienced man could have had his life cut short in such a way. Ginge, however, would not have had it any other way. He died doing what he loved most and chasing his dream, the SAS, and his many friends knew they had lost a truly great man when he passed away. I for one will never forget his ever smiling face or his trademark laugh that got us through some very difficult times, I always have a pint 'with' him at every Green Jacket reunion.

The rest of the team consisted of a young recruit, 'Robbo' Robins, who had recently joined us from the training depot and an extremely laid-back riflemen of West Indian origin known only as 'Cyrus'. Despite our lack of experience and Cyrus's lack of interest, Ginge succeeded in moulding us into an extremely effective team and we performed very well on all the phases of the training. Cyrus was particularly thrilled when Lucozade brought out its new tropical fruit flavour and he bought this by the crate to keep his already naturally low energy levels topped up during the rather hectic and physical training programme. He was a great character and I and Ginge used to joke with him that he could get shot through the chest and not let it bother him. Robbo, on the other hand, had some problems of his own. It is a huge thing, as I mentioned before, just making that transition from the training depot to the battalion without being thrust straight into the very serious and intense training programme run by the Northern Ireland training and tactics team. He did, however, perform very well considering the huge amount of pressure he must have been under not only to take everything in but also to get accepted by his new comrades, and he turned out to be a valued member of Yankee Two Zero Bravo, our call sign for the tour.

The urban warfare phase of our training culminated in a four-day stint in 'Tin City'. This was an exact replica of Belfast, which was filled with 'Civ-Pop' (members of another regiment who act as civilians and live in Tin City for the duration of the exercise) and covered with closed circuit television, which records every move twenty-three hours a day. During our tour in 'Tin City' we were given an endless amount of different tasks and incidents to deal with on the basis that we were in a real security forces base in Belfast. Each day at 2100 hours the exercise was stopped for one hour and we all crammed into the metal hangar for a briefing on the day's events. The staff used the CCTV recordings to analyze our reactions. They kept the mood going by playing records such as Tears for Fears' Shout and various records by U2, as well as cleverly editing the videotapes with scenes from old news reports, old comedy films and even footage from the TV series Spitting Image where they felt it was necessary to highlight good or bad reactions.

The final event and the one they had been building us up to was a very realistic full-scale riot involving the whole company and real petrol bombs and rubber bullets. This was an experience I will never forget, as the smell of burning rubber and petrol and the feel of real bricks hitting you, not to mention the very real casualties taken on both sides, only added to the realism of the whole exercise.

After completing the urban phase there was time for a well-deserved weekend off, which was spent topping up on the alcohol levels that had seriously diminished over the previous couple of weeks in our usual Dover haunts. One thing that I always found amazing in all 'squaddie' towns was the vast number of civilians who ventured into the town's pubs when the battalion was away and the speed at which they quickly disappeared to wherever it was they came from on our return. However, I think that in general we, the Green Jackets, got on very well with the locals in most of the towns we served in and we certainly never gave anyone any real reason to be afraid to drink in their own town. Maybe it was just the sheer number of us that descended on the town and the way in which we lived by the rule 'we work hard so we'll play hard' that intimidated some people.