10

A Horrible Shower of Shit

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The answer to my problems came in the unlikely form of a lad named Jimmy Shane, who burst into the light machine shop at Parsons one morning, very excited, because he’d just signed up to join the Territorial Army – Britain’s answer to the U.S. National Guard.

‘All you have to dee is march aroond on a Wednesday, and every odd weekend you get to gan up the range and fire a gun!’ he told me, speaking so quickly, I could barely understand him. ‘And if you stick it oot for a year, they give you a £200 bounty!’

‘What?’ I said, barely able to believe what I thought I’d just heard.

‘I said . . . all you have to dee is march aroond on a –’

‘No, no, no – the last part.’

‘If you stick it oot for a year, they’ll give you a £200 bounty!’

Holy shit, I thought – this is it. This is how I can buy a bigger P.A. system! This is how I can get back on stage . . . but this time with a bigger, better band. (I also loved the idea of earning a ‘bounty’.)

I ran down to the T.A. recruitment office that same day and filled out an application form. Then I was taken to a separate room for a rigorous medical exam.

Doctor: ‘Name and address?’

Me: ‘61 Chirton West View, North Shields.’

Doctor: ‘Is there anything wrong with you?’

Me: ‘Well, er –’

Doctor: ‘You’re in.’

Now, I should explain at this point that there was a choice of divisions that you could join, but the parachute regiment – the one that Jimmy Shane had signed up for – was the only one that paid you the almost unimaginable sum of £200. If you joined the engineers, for example, you got ‘only’ £125. What’s more, in the paras you were promised an £8 bonus for every time you jumped out of a plane – not that I thought for a second that I’d ever be doing that. I mean, the British government didn’t have money for anything in those days. And this was peacetime. And the North East. So, the idea that they’d be sending lads like me up on joyrides in the skies seemed laughable. The paras would be just one step up from the Sea Scouts, in my mind. We’d wear our uniforms, do some drills, maybe go on a camping trip, and at the end of the year, I’d be £200 richer, thanks very much.

Next thing I knew, I was reporting for duty after work at a drill hall in Gosforth, a well-to-do suburb just north of Newcastle. I’d even managed to talk George Beveridge into coming with me. Not that he needed much persuading after hearing about the bounty.

A shiver went down my spine as we approached the drill hall and heard the shouts of command and the thud of marching feet. And that part of me was going, oh, fuck yeah. I mean, I was also a bit nervous – the T.A. lads looked hard men – but when they took a break and started talking to us, they couldn’t have been more friendly.

The same could not be said of the drill sergeants. Every other word out of their mouths was ‘fuck’, and when they called out your name – or rather, screamed it in your face – it was nearly always followed by, ‘You horrible shower of shit.’

The first thing I had to do was sign the Official Secrets Act, which seemed a bit much, but also quite exciting.

Then I got my first order: ‘YOU! YOU HORRIBLE SHOWER OF SHIT! GET YOUR FUCKIN’ HAIR CUT!’

Oh, crap. I’d forgotten you needed a short-back-and-sides to join the military. I should have remembered the footage of Elvis getting his head shaved and being flown to West Germany so he could sit on a tank. My hair was kind of long and curly, and it looked just the part on stage. But it was useless to me without a P.A. system. And if Jimi Hendrix had been a U.S. Marine – who was I to object?

I was issued my second-hand uniform, which smelled of old battlefields and old hookers – not to mention old stains. We were given new boots – brand new and shiny black, with khaki puttees, or leg-bindings – followed by the coveted crowning glory, my red beret. Only the beret had no wings on it. You had to earn them.

We were then told to make arrangements for two weeks of leave from our workplaces for Basic Training. This was another thing I wasn’t planning on. What the fuck was Basic Training all about? I was about to find out.

Basic Training took place at a fucking huge place – Catterick Garrison on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales.

The group of lads I found myself with had been put under the command of a short, stout and incredibly noisy Glaswegian drill sergeant who we nicknamed The Pig.

When The Pig screamed an order, the word ‘you’ would exit his throat as ‘YEEEEEEOOOWW!’ – the same sound you might make if someone was trying to insert a cheese grater up your rectum. And when The Pig marched us up and down the parade ground – which was pretty much all of the time – his ‘lefts’ would come out as ‘EFFs!’ and his ‘rights’ as ‘HAIGHTs!’ As in – ‘EFF-HAIGHT! EFF-HAIGHT! EFF-HAIGHT!’

Aye, The Pig’s love of misery was legendary. As was his generosity in spreading it around.

Our quarters at Catterick were World War II-era Nissen huts – basically sheets of corrugated iron that had been bent into half cylinders, with a breeze block wall and a door at each end. There was a stove pipe for heating, but we didn’t use it, otherwise we would have had to clean it out every night to pass The Pig’s morning inspection – The Pig would drop a sixpence on your bedsheets, and if the coin didn’t bounce, that meant you hadn’t pulled the sheets tight enough, and you’d have to face his wrath.

Our days would begin at the crack of dawn, when The Pig would walk around bashing two dustbin lids together, right next to our heads.

After that, it was breakfast at the Naafi* – a.k.a. the canteen – followed by non-stop marches, drills, lectures on breaking down your gun, then visits to the firing range, until it was time to eat, then hit the sack. By which time you’d be so knackered, you’d be fast asleep the second your head hit the pillow.

The firing range should have been the best part. But we were too worried about failing the test to have much fun. There were no telescopic sights or any of that shit. And the targets were about 200 to 300 yards away, with some as far away as 600 yards, and, of course, The Pig would be breathing down your neck, screaming things like, ‘No, no, no! Not like that! Steady your hand!’ just as you were about to pull the trigger. I qualified as average, which meant I missed as many as I hit – enough to pass the test.

The upside of all the adversity was how deeply it made you bond with your fellow recruits.

Within a couple of days, I’d become fast friends with the likes of Jimmy Shane – the guy who’d given me the idea to join the T.A. – along with another lad named Jimmy Smith and a huge fella we knew only as The Dane. But, of course, the more comfortable we got in each other’s company, the more we started to mess around . . .

Never a good idea in the military.

One morning, for example, we turned out for parade and The Pig was nowhere to be seen, so I thought that I would do my best impression of him in front of the lads. I must have been doing a good job because the lads were howling with laughter – but then suddenly they stopped and stood to attention. I thought, boy, I’m good at this. Then I heard heavy breathing from behind and a voice filled with unconcealed hatred. ‘I hate you, Johnson, and I’m going tae make your life misery.’

Oh, shit . . . The Pig.

I was dead.

He made me run around the parade ground holding my rifle above my head until morning parade was over.

We had a twenty-mile route march with the full kit, then we returned to camp, the lads went to the Naafi, but not me. Sergeant Pig had other ideas, like running round the parade ground again with that fucking heavy rifle getting heavier. After that, I cleaned out a huge coal bunker till he thought it satisfactory. My arms were knackered, the P.A. system seemed a long way off. Needless to say, spanking the monkey was right out of the question for the next couple of days.

Having finished Basic training, I was basically a very basic part-time soldier. But to be the complete parachute package, I had to jump out of a perfectly good aircraft, at 800–1,000 feet, and to do that, we had to go to parachute-training school at RAF Abingdon in Oxfordshire.

There were about forty guys, all wondering what they’d let themselves in for. Laughter was way too loud, and bravado was bouncing off the walls, meaning we were all shit scared.

The first thing you notice at a Royal Air Force base is the absence of parade ground shouting. Everyone was so nice and polite, the sergeant, who greeted us, was so charming.

‘Hello lads, I hope you had a good journey, now follow me and I’ll take you to your quarters, and you can get settled in. I’ll be back in an hour and I’ll show you where you’ll have lunch.’

Oh, this was great. I liked this nice polite sergeant, and then lunch, brilliant. The canteen was better than I’d dreamed of. This is where the bomber crews had bacon and eggs after a night raid over enemy territory, magic stuff.

The food was good too. After dessert, the lovely sergeant fella said, ‘Right boys, we’ll now go to the lecture hall and tell you what the next two weeks of training consists of and introduce you to your jump sergeants (masters).’

I had this feeling that someone had just walked over my grave, but I put it down to an errant bowel movement. Into the lecture hall we walked, and there, with a glint in his eye, was the dreaded Pig. Oh, shit! I’m dead, and he must have read my mind because he gave me a microscopic nod.

This time he had brought his friends with him, and they all looked eager to get started on the jumping from a great height bit. My dreams of singing in a band in front of an adoring audience disintegrated, along with thoughts of a long life. Still, I was determined to see it through.

The next morning started with the usual parade and inspection, then breakfast, then learning how to fall from varying heights. The sergeants would always shout ‘GO!’ right in your ear, and when they did, you went.

The most frightening thing was climbing up The Tower. It was basically an electric pylon, and when you got to the top it swayed with the wind. The fear factor was sphincter-rattlingly catastrophic. Then they put a harness round your waist and shoulders, which was attached to a wire. This was attached to a pulley, which when you jumped would spin a two-foot square board, and that was your brake as it were.

The jump sergeant was having the time of his life watching wide-eyed recruits pissing their pants as they realized just how high up they were. I tried to be civil to him, and he smiled and said ‘GO!’, so I did.

You must realize, at the start of this course we were told that if you hesitated or refused to jump, you would be out of camp within thirty minutes, baggage and all, so you couldn’t talk to anyone else of your fear.

That afternoon, we were told that our first real parachute jump would be tomorrow morning. One kid whooped and cheered, but we beat the shit out of him.

The next morning was a beautiful blue-sky day. Nobody ate much breakfast. We lined up for our parachutes and, as we put them on, belting them up around crotch, waist and shoulders, you immediately wondered if yours was okay. We’d been told of the dreaded ‘roman candle’, which means the chute doesn’t open, and the song we sang when drunk was the old parachute ditty.

They jumped from 20,000 feet without a parachute

They jumped from 20,000 feet without a parachute

And he ain’t gonna jump no more.

Glory, glory, what a hell of a way to die

Glory, glory, what a hell of a way to die.

And he ain’t gonna jump no more.

They scraped him off the runway like

A pound of strawberry jam. . . .

I think you get my drift.

‘Right gentlemen, check your reserve chute is properly fixed in position on your chest, and the red handle is facing up and if you lose the handle in any way, we shall take 10 shillings and sixpence out of your pay. Follow me.’

I thought, bollocks! All I wanted was a P.A. system. The Beatles and The Stones never did this. They were on the road, shagging birds and getting high, but not as fucking high as me!

We followed the jump masters to our transport to the skies. It was a basket hanging from a balloon, just like the Montgolfier brothers. The sergeant major shouted, ‘This is not a fucking balloon, it is a dirigible, and that underneath is not a basket, it’s a gondola. Call it anything else and you will face my ire!’

I can’t really remember what was going through my mind, but it resembled a white cross with a poppy on it. We were to jump in groups of five. I was number four.

‘Right, you lot, your turn, follow me.’

And we did. We walked into this basket, sorry gondola, hanging onto the sides for grim death. Then it started to ascend, the J.M. shouted ‘HOOK UP!’ and we hooked our chutes to the static line. Up and up, we went. God, this was proper stuff. As usual, my arse was doing its impression of a squirrel’s nose. But the scariest of all, was the sheer and absolute silence. So quiet, you could hear birds breaking wind.

‘Right lads, here we are, 800 feet. Do exactly as I say.’ There was a doorway that remained open at all times. We were still gripping the rail of the basket for dear life.

‘What are you holding that for, you’ll all be jumping in a minute.’

And that’s when it hit me, sod the P.A., sod music, I wanna live.

‘Number one, to the door, hand on the door, GO!’ And he went, then two, then three . . . ‘Number four, to the door, GO!’

And I did, and I fell and kept falling, till a big hand pulled me up and I was floating down and I started to laugh at the same time as steering down my chute. I landed and it didn’t hurt, it was an explosive feeling of relief, and I wanted to do it again, because I’d just earned £8.

We did one more that day, £16.

To get your wings as a para, you had to complete seven jumps, two from a dirigible and five out of an aircraft, and that was next and very different.

The next morning, we assembled in the hangar and were shown our 60lb kit bags. These were tied to your right leg, and from that a fifteen-foot lanyard type thing was attached to your waist strap, with a quick-release catch. Once you had jumped and your chute was fully opened, you had to let the bag go, and it hung from your waist. Meaning when you landed, your gear was right beside you.

The trouble was these things started to oscillate, which means swinging like a pendulum, and they can really fuck with your genitalia. On top of all that, if you got scared and jettisoned it, you would be neck deep in shit from everyone who mattered. Basically, because it was very dangerous for those below you.

The whole experience of jumping from an aircraft is bewildering to men or boys. You are hardly able to walk with 60lb strapped to you and there is the noise of the aircraft engines (it was my first time on a plane ever). Climbing into the fuselage; finding the netting; which was your seat. Checking your helmet was secure; no smiles from anyone, no jokes, just rigid looks on everyone’s face.

The plane takes off, climbing slowly. It was a Blackburn Beverley, as old and tired as a pit pony.

We circle, then the jump master stands. He looks down the plane and lifts both hands. That means ‘stand up’. We do, and face him.

‘HOOK UP!’

We can’t hear him, but he crooks his forefinger, and we do.

‘CHECK EQUIPMENT!’

That means, check the man in front’s straps, and that he is safe to go. Meanwhile, hoping the guy behind you is doing the same. And then you’re ready. The red light is on, bloody hell, what the fuck am I doing here? I keep getting myself in these situations. ‘Dear Mrs. Johnson, here’s a bucket of PVT Johnson’s remains.’ Stop thinking, Brian.

Green light, and the first man is gone. You can’t see anything until you get to the door, and there’s the earth.

A long way down and moving fast, go, and I was gone. Almost horizontal for a few seconds and then that lovely chute opens, phew!

Oh shit, I forgot the quick release. I release it, and down my kit bag drops and hangs there, and down we go. I land with a slight roll and pull in the chute. I’m safe, I made it (£24).

We did another four, all exciting as hell and as scary, but I had fucking done it.