Soldier Of The Queen (8 page)

Army, but his intention was to get an up-to-date military training and then return home to bayonet some commie kaffirs.

The army barmies would spend most of their time asking: "What do you want to be? Which regiment do you want to be in?" Some of the more crazed ones were desperate to join the Paras. I would tell them there was no way anyone could get me to jump out of a perfectly good aeroplane unless it was going to crash. At that time I had not grasped the meaning of regiments. I just thought we were all in the army and that was that. Alan explained the regimental system and told me he was going to join his father's Scottish regiment. He suggested I went with him, but my experiences in Scotland had left me with a jaundiced view of the Scots. I said: "I ain't going in no fucking jock regiment." So he suggested - because of my Irish background — that I joined an Irish one. He added: "Then you can be a war-dodger as well." I didn't know what he meant. He explained there was a policy not to send Irish regiments to serve in Northern Ireland.

My mind had been so focussed on avoiding prison that I had not until that point properly considered the most unpleasant implication of joining the army, namely, that I might have to serve in the North. Alan's suggestion of how I could dodge the war struck me as excellent. I asked him if there was an Irish tank regiment. He said there was: it was called the 5th Royal Inniskilling Dragoon Guards. Towards the end of the selection process I was interviewed and asked which regiment I wanted to join. I told them I felt drawn to the 5th Royal Inniskilling Dragoon Guards. They asked me why. I said: "Because my parents are Irish."

From Sutton Coldfield I was sent to start my seven weeks of basic training with the Royal Armoured Corps in the

Yorkshire garrison town of Catterick. A childhood of verbal and physical abuse had prepared me well for the training regime. Indeed, some days I used to feel my childhood was being repeated as pantomime farce and, unlike most of my fellow recruits, I found a lot of the extreme behaviour extremely funny. None of the instructors ever talked normally: they barked, shouted or screamed every instruction and, perhaps through fear that you hadn't heard them, would often supplement their words with punches, slaps or kicks.

My pre-existing prejudices against Scots became intensified by my encounters with the instructors, many of whom were Scottish. There was one small-arms instructor, in particular, whom we nicknamed McPsycho. He was about 6ft 1, broad-shouldered, muscular and intimidating - a real Action Man. Even his eyes moved. He lived in a state of unceasing rage, at times even frothing at the mouth, like a rabid dog that had just had its bone stolen. You dared not commit a misdemeanour on the firing range. If your weapon jammed or you fired after he had ordered you to stop or you failed in some way to follow the correct procedure he would bear down upon you, ranting hysterically, spit falling from his mouth or bubbling on his lips. The man was a health hazard. As you lay on the ground facing the targets he would stand on your back and shout about fucking idiots who did not want to listen. Then he would say something like: "Maybe they don't want to listen because their lives are so miserable they'd sooner be dead. They'd rather be buried underground so people could walk over them." At this point he would walk on the spot on the wrongdoer's back. Then as he squeezed almost the last breath from his victim's lungs he would scream: "Is your life so fucking miserable you want to die?"

"
No, corporal."

"
Then listen! Fucking listen!"

He would also throw handfuls of gravel or dirt at those he thought were not paying attention. You never walked anywhere with him, you always ran. If he was not alongside you shouting insults, he would be behind you kicking your arse - especially on the forced marches. They called them marches, but you spent most of the five miles running with a full kit on your back, a sub-machine-gun in your hands - tank crews did not train with rifles - and a pair of new, ill-fitting boots on your feet that rubbed your skin raw. You would run for three miles and then be ordered to walk, but not at normal walking pace, because this was a forced walk with instructors barking, "Left, right, left, right, left, right," as you lost your rhythm and co-ordination. Then you would go back to running before arriving at an assault course which you would have to cross in groups of six carrying a telegraph pole. As I was taller than most - a lot of people in the tank regiments are quite small so they can fit into the confined tank space -1 had to carry the pole on my shoulder. The smaller recruits in the middle did not have to bear so much of the weight. As I crossed the course the pole would be bouncing and smashing into my head and shoulder, giving me a red-raw shoulder to complement my red-raw feet.

The training was so intense that you were physically exhausted all the time. On a good day you would fall into bed at 11 p.m. and crawl out at 5 a.m. But you did not usually have much time to sleep, because just as you fell into blissful oblivion around 3 a.m. the doors would be flung open, the lights would be switched on and a group of psychotic Scottish instructors would be standing there screaming. You would leap six feet in the air to land at the side of your bed in your underclothes. At first some people tried to be smart by wearing their uniforms in bed to save having to change swiftly. A few punches in the head and the instructors' observation that "Only pigs wear clothes to bed" put an end to that ruse. Others would sleep on the floor so as not to have to make their beds. But the instructors knew all the tricks and they dealt with that one by dashing unexpectedly into the room, grabbing the feet of their victim and dragging him across the floor into the corridor where he would be kicked about.

As you stood to attention by your bed you would be ordered to run downstairs to play the instructors' favourite game -Changing Parades. They would order you to change into a bizarre combination of clothing which you had to wear in the stipulated order. They would say things like: "On your feet you'll have plimsolls, on your legs you'll have lightweight trousers, then your number two uniform jacket, then I want you to wear a metal helmet and your towel round your neck." Then they would shout: "Go! Go! Go!" and you would run back upstairs to change, then run back down as fast as you could. The first three downstairs would be allowed to go back to bed; the others would be ordered to change into another combination, which invariably involved wearing a gas mask. Nine times out of ten you had to keep your gas mask on for the whole exercise — sometimes running upstairs backwards — and as you got hotter and hotter you could hardly breathe, nor could you see out of the steamed-up visor.

There was one recruit who lived in dread of Changing Parades because he always ended up going to bed last. He was from south London, of slight build with short dark hair, parted at the side. Sometimes he wore glasses. He did not mix well

and rarely spoke. He spent most of his time sitting alone reading war comics or books about the Waffen SS, which obsessed him. Even his civilian clothing was Second World War replica or original: brown leather USAF flying jacket with fur collar, green German paratroop trousers and Afrika Korps camouflage fatigues. Around his bed space, instead of photos of his family or pornographic posters, he had pictures of Nazi tanks. We nicknamed him Rommel. He knew everything there was to know about Waffen SS panzer divisions, especially their soldiers' clothing and weaponry. He wanted to join the Royal Tank Regiment because their tank crews were the only ones in the British Army who wore black overalls - like his SS panzer heroes. Members of other tank regiments wore green. He would also listen to tapes of the "Speak German in a Fortnight" variety, although he claimed this was because we were likely to be posted to Germany. We used to take the mickey out of him and sometimes he would play up to us, goose-stepping up and down the room with his right arm outstretched in a Nazi salute. However, although he was clearly army barmy, his military enthusiasm did not translate into military efficiency, which was why, among other things, he feared Changing Parades.

One night as we frantically changed into the latest bizarre combination of clothing he could not find a particular item and said: "Fuck. I'm going to be last again." I suggested that if he wanted to be first down he ought to jump out the window. As we were twenty feet up on the third floor I thought he would take my suggestion as the joke it was meant to be. But in his desperation it must have seemed like a good idea, because the next second he was clambering out the window. The image that remains in my mind is of him looking back at me, eyes flickering madly, as he launched himself into the air. I heard a crunch and a piercing "Aaaaarrrggghhh!" and I ran to look out. Rommel was writhing on the ground; instructors were standing over him shouting, "What are you doing? What are you doing, you silly cunt?" Miraculously he did not break any bones - although he could hardly walk -and once the instructors had established that fact they forced him to crawl back upstairs to continue the game.

Throughout this time my major anxiety was that the army's stringent checks for hidden criminals would result in my exposure. During training they often called out my name and ordered me to report somewhere. The shout "O'Mahoney! Get here now!" would send the adrenaline pumping through my veins and push into my mind the vision of a dank prison cell. I would run to my fate only to be met with the scream, "What's your doctor's name?" or some other petty administrative query. With hindsight I needn't have worried about being booted out for lying. Either they never checked my record or they decided to ignore what they found. I was not the only person to conceal his past: during my three years in the army I came across many people - at least 20 - with undisclosed criminal records, often involving crimes of violence. I only heard of one instance where they confronted someone over a discrepancy in his application. This concerned a soldier who had not mentioned his Polish relations. The Cold War was still being fought and they were worried about being infiltrated by spies from behind the Iron Curtain. But after a little hoo-ha even he was allowed to remain.

While I could tolerate, even enjoy, the physical and mental challenges of the intense training regime, there were many petty idiocies that I loathed. Supreme among these was the fetish for perfect cleanliness and order in all aspects of your military existence. Toothpaste tubes had to be tapped square. Everything in your wardrobe had to be perfectly presented and perfectly placed. Shirts had to be folded exactly with the use of a piece of cardboard, then placed in a particular spot; hats had their own space; boots went in three inches from the wall - no closer, no farther — and they could only be put there after you'd spent any free time at night cleaning and polishing them to a mirror-finish, which you would achieve by melting candle wax in a spoon, rubbing it into the boot and polishing in small circles, often for hours. At those times I'd experience a boredom so mind-numbing that it was almost like a spiritual experience.

Everything was done with a view to inspection. The corporal would come in wearing white gloves. You would be standing by your beds (blankets boxed and precisely measured with a stick). He would put his white-gloved hand behind a radiator and if when he took his hand away there was even the slightest speck of dust on his glove he would scream: "You fucking pigs!" I'd find it hard not to laugh. One time he went in to the room next to ours and after a few seconds I heard him shouting: "You fucking pigs! You fucking animals!" Then I heard the window being opened violently and the words: "If you want to be fucking pigs, then be fucking pigs." With that, various items of clothing began being thrown out of the window while his voice became increasingly hysterical. He threw the entire contents of their wardrobes onto the grass below, all the time screaming: "You fucking pigs! Pigs! Pigs! Pigs! Pigs! What are you? Pigs!" For the whole weekend the four occupants of that room had to live in a tent outside the block because, being pigs, they weren't fit to live in the same block as us. Every time I used to look out the window at them I used to crack up with laughter. I used to go to breakfast in the morning and they would come crawling out of the tent, looking very unhappy. Even during drill the four pigs would be singled out for humiliation. The instructor would say to one: "What are you?"

He would reply: "Pig, sergeant." "WHAT ARE YOU?" "I'M A PIG, SERGEANT."

Sometimes, even within their earshot, I couldn't stop myself laughing, which used to get me into a lot of trouble. The instructor would shout: "O'Mahoney! What's so fucking funny?" I would go to talk and he would scream: "SHUUUTTT UP!!" As you marched - another thing I loathed - the instructor would measure your strides with his drill stick - a brass-capped cane — and if your steps were longer than was ordained in the regulations he would whack you over the head with the cane.

Unsafe handling of weapons would always be dealt with viciously, although sometimes the instructors would set you up for a beating. One day they lined us up in the corridor. A corporal shouted at me to enter a particular room. I marched in to find an instructor sitting at a desk. I stood to attention and gave him my name, rank and number. He looked me up and down, then said: "Stand at ease." He appeared to return to what he had been doing. After a few seconds he said quietly: "Do us a favour. Pass that weapon to me." On the floor was a sub-machine-gun which looked as if it was in the middle of being cleaned. I bent to pick it up and, bang, I felt a punch in the back of my head. "What the fucking hell do you think you're doing?" he screamed. I remembered too late that the proper procedure when picking up a weapon was to put your foot on it, check to see if it was loaded and generally make sure it was safe before giving it to anyone. I must have been put off guard by the fact that he had spoken to me in a normal tone of voice, which he swiftly abandoned: "YOU FUCKING PIG! YOU FUCKING KILLED ME!" When I recovered from being punched around the room he pointed to Nobby and told me it was mine for a week. Nobby was an old dud shell with a woolly hat on. Anyone who made a mistake when handling a weapon had to carry Nobby around for a week. You had to take it everywhere - to the canteen, on runs, even to bed. They would check to make sure you were carrying it at all times. Nobby was often my companion. The other variation on this theme was the luminous orange hard-hat, which you had to wear at all times for a week if you failed to salute an officer when you passed him. At dinner time the canteen would be dotted with luminous orange hard-hats.