CHAPTER 15 - AN EXERCISE IN CONTROL

In 1965 I qualified as a physical training instructor in the army and was proud to be posted to the ultimate job in the headquarters of my corps. I had been married only a month before I took my place in Chichester where the Royal Military Police were trained in Roussillon Barracks.

My initial army training took place in 1962 in an ex-prison built by prisoners from the Napoleonic Wars and was an absolutely dark and dingy place for a young seventeen-year-old to find himself after signing up for military service.

I suppose my basic training in Woking at that ghastly haunted barracks must have prepared me for what was to come, and there was a lot of bullying for which the Military Police were known. Persecution, teasing, name-calling and attempts to break down every soldier who was stupid enough to volunteer to occupy a space of thirty-five square feet, with an iron bed, horsehair mattress and a metal locker to put one’s possessions, which were anyway forbidden to have when we joined up.

That dim, cold and pre–Cuban Missile Crisis was not at all missed when I passed out in October 1962 and became a non-commissioned officer, smart as can be and fully trained by an amazing training regime. I was expecting to go to Cuba and when I saw on part one orders, a statement that soldiers were being encouraged to sign up for service in Vietnam in case we joined the Americans and Australians, I was tempted because I had absolutely no idea what that meant.

Back to Roussillon Barracks and my time as a PTI. I was earning two pounds a week and was given an army quarter within the barracks compound, a two-bedroom dank and dark place, as I was married. Within a year my daughter Maxine was born, and I was sailing high. I loved being a dad and I loved my home life, but I wanted to get out of that army quarter.

After completing a year as a PTI and having achieved a good position, I was aware that my boss from the APTTC (Army Physical Training Corps) was rarely in the gymnasium, and I never once saw him take a lesson. He was a short and gross looking sergeant major and the five PTIs loathed him. He used to call me names and give me some rough jobs and for some reason he made my life hell.

By 1966 I had requested and army hiring, a private rental, and was given a five-bedroom house in Old Bosham, by the sea. It was owned by a London barrister who made a deal that the army would pay the rent, twice my salary, and if I looked after this lovely house, he would give back that rent. I lived in luxury but there was something to be worried about.

I was an athlete, and my performance was much better than that of my boss, and it was clear to see that he was after me. I was very popular with the recruits and there was no doubt that the other PTSs were also very much admired. The boss man used to stand at the side of the gym. and grimace shouting expletives that were upsetting us all. He was an absolute disgrace of a warrant officer and all he seemed to do was to throw the hammer, and not very far!

I was recommended for entry to the APTC after I completed an advanced physical training course and passed. Indeed, I was encouraged by sergeant major Letts to join, and the icing on the cake was when in 1967 I won the vault against Russia in Berlin. So, my PTI career was fixed, and I began to pack after being promoted to sergeant in the MPs. All I had to do was to ask my APTC boss to sign the paper for me to transfer from the MPs.

I entered my boss’s grubby, tiny, dishevelled office and saw him sat on a char behind his desk sporting his white jersey with crossed swords badge emblazoned on its front. He picked up his pipe, cleaned it out with ash falling into the bin and filled it with Erinmore Mixture. Nothing yet said, he lit the pipe and sat back asking what I wanted.

“I have been offered a place in the APTC and I want to transfer from the MPs, which means leaving your group of PTIs.”

He looked at me, did his usual grimace and began to use expletives that seemed he was angry with me.

“What the f…… hell do you think I am going to do, sign that f…… army form?”

“Yes, please sergeant major. I need you to and then I have to take it to the company office and get it signed by Major West, then I can transfer”.

“Get out of my f…… office. There is no way. First you are offered a commission and route to Sandhurst and now you want to join my corps”.

He flatly refused the transfer and when I walked down the gym to the office where my mates were preparing lessons, it was clear that they had heard the conversation, and Harry told me. “That bastard is the world’s biggest a……. and should be shot. You must achieve that transfer”.

It didn’t work and I was condemned to continue at Roussillon, until I heard he was retiring and another sergeant major would be my new boss.

Within a month the new boss was in place and had heard the story from his predecessor so it was adamant that I was staying in the MPs. It was on the very day that I heard my wife had only a short time to live, and when I suggested to this monster of a boss that moving to APTC HQ in Aldershot would be close to my mother-in-law, he chuckled and chucked out some abusive language.

“You think you are above us all just because you have been educated, don’t drink, don’t swear and have a posh accent, but over my dead body will you get a f…… transfer to my corps. Get stuck in and see what will happen if you don’t”.

Being bullied by another boss was a lot to bear but in coming months I achieved a discharge by purchase, thanks to my mother-in-law. I was soon out and into civvy street with my family ready to plough a new furrow.

The irony is that people like those two bosses always get their just deserts, and as I entered my new career, I always wondered what they would become.

In 1975, six years after I left the army, I was having supper with Captain Pancott of the APTC who told me a little about those I knew who had left the APTC. The first boss became a prison warder and passed away last year. The second boss is a bus driver in Chichester.

My eyes lit up and I said to John that I think I saw him having a fag outside Chichester Bus Station a couple of years ago, but I thought I was mistaken. How extraordinary”. One minute a god and the next a bus driver!