I Was a Teenage Devil: But I'm Alright Now!

I Was a Teenage Devil - But I’m Alright Now!

Construction of a Personality: In Her Majesty’s Service

By T.D.McKinnon

Copyright T.D.McKinnon 2011

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Editing and cover design by Zoë Lake

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Other books by T.D.McKinnon:

*Surviving the Battleground of Childhood

*John Farrell Is Utrinque Paratus

*Heather Skye Wilson Is the Psychic Warrior

*Terra Nullius

Table of Contents

Prologue

Introduction

Chapter 1: Off With the Old on With the New

Chapter 2: Can’t Live With Them, You Can’t Live Without

Chapter 3: The Year of Living Dangerously

Chapter 4: Combustible Elements

Chapter 5: Sweet Summer Leave

Chapter 6: Reluctant Athlete

Chapter 7: Nil orally

Chapter 8: Friends and Enemies

Chapter 9: Beauty and the Beast

Chapter 10: We Would Be Heroes

Chapter 11: Outwardbound

Chapter 12: Rising to the Challenge

Chapter 13: Love hurts

Chapter 14: Out of the Frying Pan

Chapter 15: RAF Abingdon

Chapter 16: Two birds in the hand

Chapter 17: Where There’s a Will

Chapter 18: Leave of Absence

Chapter 19: 1st Battalion the Parachute Regiment

Chapter 20: We all Have to Die Sometime

Chapter 21: Soldier On

Chapter 22: Skiver

Chapter 23: Brought Sharply in to Line

Chapter 24: Like a Horse and Carriage

Chapter 25: Love’s Young Dream

Chapter 26: The Walking Wounded

Chapter 27: Endings and Beginnings

Epilogue

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Prologue (back to ToC)

This is the continuing story of the construction of a personality: the true story, from one person's point of view of course. The names of some characters and places have been changed to prevent any unwanted involvement with this book.

I attempt through this book to paint a picture of myself, taking you the reader through with every stroke of the brush, and in effect share with you as I examine the construction of my own personality. I believe that the construction did not start with my birth, in physical terms, nor will it end with my death: for the construction is a continuous thing. But what we are dealing with in this book is a phase of the physical foundations within this particular lifetime. At no point do I consider the construction complete: writing about my life my understanding of my own personal reality deepens, enriching the painting. Indeed now – as always – the construction continues.

The way I wrote this book was by piecing together fragments of my memories, much like a jigsaw puzzle. The jigsaw begins with a particular incident, a clear picture in my mind: I have called these clear snapshots in time and space ‘memory points’. To accurately recover a complete memory I would hold a ‘memory point’, and follow the time before and after it until I had the entire story, the complete memory. One ‘memory point’ revealed another: as I traced each one to provide a clear account. Of course all memories are distorted to some degree: depending on any beliefs held concerning ‘reality’ at that particular time.

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Introduction (back to ToC)

From my earliest memories, I was beaten by a father who – subjected to the harsh existence of a coal-miner, and frustrated by the betrayals of an unfaithful wife – vented his anger on me.

After suffering a nervous breakdown in my early childhood, I endeavoured to escape my father’s tyranny and my mother’s complacency, but in my search for a nourishing love I fell foul of situations I was ill equipped to deal with. At just five years of age I was introduced to sexuality by the two little girls next-door, who were themselves sexually molested by their uncle. A grandfather took advantage of my doting love and trust by repeatedly sexually molesting me. And then a second grandfather, one I hardly knew, also sexually assaulted me.

Not what you'd call a happy child, somewhat of a loner, I was the recipient of bullying at school, and I came close to death on several occasions; drowning twice, to the point of letting go.

Throughout all of the aforementioned battleground, with its minefields and booby-traps: enduring the interminable beatings and psychological tribulations at home, and the predators, antagonists and bullies in my immediate environment, my determination to survive and an indomitable sense of adventure carried me through. Until at fifteen years of age, surviving the battleground of my childhood, I escaped from the confines of the mining communities by enlisting in the British army.

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Chapter 1: Off With the Old on With the New (back to ToC)

The Junior Parachute Company

Memory Point: 'Up! Up! Up! someone's shouting; I'm still half in my dream-state… Bang! Bang! Bang! There's a loud thumping on the wooden walls of the billet. As I attempt to physically orientate, the double doors at the end of the barrack room burst open with such a force I'm sure they will fly from their hinges.

Hands off cocks… On with socks! bellows the scary intruder framed in the doorway.

In singlet and shorts, huge barrel chest, long ape-like arms and no neck; he resembles a gorilla and appears much shorter than his five feet ten inches. His round head seems to be just stuck on his wide, sloping shoulders; the hair on his head is short and sparse and makes the hair that covers his entire body seem longer and thicker than it actually is.

As he stands in the doorway, from his snarl-like grin and the sparkle in his dark, beady eyes, it's quite obvious that he is enjoying the panic and confusion he is creating.

Starting to move onto the next billet, he suddenly stops and turns back, a look of shocked amazement on his face; abruptly, appearing for all the world like an enraged gorilla, he charges down the centre of the room making loud growling noises. Everyone backs as far out of his path as they can; everyone that is except the poor, unfortunate boy who's slept through the entire performance thus far. The boy in question wakes up just in time to stare wide eyed and open mouthed in horror as he is lifted, bed and all, and hurled down the centre of the room.'

(This is the first memory point of this book; from this snapshot in time and space I gleaned the complete memory: the first sub chapter.)

The billet was now silent, some boys staring at the metal bed lying in a disassembled wreck, while the boy sitting amidst the wreckage and the rest of us stared in disbelief at the open doorway. The doorway only a second before 'Company Sergeant Major Instructor Hunton', the physical training officer of the Junior Parachute Company, had disappeared through, laughing like a demented lunatic.

When Hairy Hunton is orderly officer you jump out of bed and stand to attention, immediately! Steve’s warning had paid off for me and all but one of my roommates, some of the other billets had not been so lucky: on our way to breakfast we saw about twenty boys coming back from the assault course, bathed in sweat and splattered with mud.

Was it only yesterday I said goodbye to my father and stepped onboard the train, leaving my childhood behind for ever.

As I stared out of the window I had not, as it may have appeared to the casual observer, been watching the countryside speed by. With my mind’s eye, I'd been glimpsing flickering images of what the future might hold, in line with the choices I had made thus far in my life.

Eventually, a familiar grumbling in my stomach had brought me back from my prescient dreams and going in search of the buffet car I'd bumped into Tom Hare, whom I'd met a few weeks previous at the swearing in ceremony. We were to become, some time, friends over the next few years.

During the first leg of our journey we discovered numerous boys on the same mission, and after arriving at Euston Station we travelled in convoy across London’s network of underground railways to Waterloo station. By the time we departed on the Aldershot train there were over sixty, fifteen to seventeen-year-old, boys on their way to the Junior Parachute Company.

In Aldershot, a fleet of vehicles ferried us from the station to Malta Barracks; my home for the next two years.

The camp was made up of a succession of spiders: groups of eight barrack rooms joined together; four on each side of an amenities block, all linked by a series of long corridors.

Steve was my friend, and the son of my mother's paramour; a little older than me, he'd left school and joined Junior Para six months earlier. My decision to join up was in fact made after visiting him at Malta Barracks.

As well as warning me about Hairy Hunton, Steve had filled me in on the rules of survival at the Junior Parachute Company. His general advice had been quite simple: blend in and don’t buck the system.

For the first three months I was the epitome of mediocrity: careful not to fail at anything and just as careful not to excel; I didn’t want to get noticed or singled out in any way. With sixty-four boys, the largest intake the JPC had seen so far, it was not too difficult for a rather skinny, average sized fifteen-year-old to remain anonymous.

In that first three months there were some good times, and some times that were not so good, but on the whole I considered that I’d made the right choice.

I was one of the youngest in the intake, therefore one of the youngest in the whole of the JPC: two hundred and fifty boys between fifteen and seventeen and a half years of age. Twenty corporals, seven sergeants and colour sergeants, and two company sergeant majors were numbered in the permanent staff NCOs (none-commissioned-officers); the commissioned officers consisted of four lieutenants and the company commander who was a major.

Under the permanents were about twenty Junior NCOs: boy soldiers promoted to a temporary rank while serving as juniors.

The sergeant in charge of my platoon was Sergeant Norman; he brought quite a reputation with him from P Company. P Company, or Pre Para Company, was a process that soldiers from other units had to endure when attempting to join the Parachute Brigade. Other units, as any Para will tell you, are ‘Crap-hats’ and anyone wanting to swap that ‘Crap-hat’ for the coveted Red Beret would have to endure intense physical and mental agonies. Sergeant Norman, '' or 'The White Hunter' as he was better known, was one of the best or worst, depending on who was telling the story, task masters ever to hit P Company. He was both hated and admired throughout the entire 16th Independent Parachute Brigade. Then there was Corporal Strong, he’d been in the army for about twelve years; rumour had it that he'd been busted from sergeant on more than one occasion. He was well liked by the boys, known as a veteran soldier who held little regard for commissioned officers.

For the uninitiated, NCOs work their way through the ranks from private to lance corporal, corporal, sergeant, staff/colour sergeant, company sergeant major, and eventually regimental sergeant major.

A commissioned officer starts by going straight to officer training school – where he also gets his basic soldier training – or does his basic training with his chosen unit, and then goes to an officer training school later. Regardless, they arrive in a unit as a second lieutenant, younger than any of the NCOs and technically out ranking them all. The attitude towards commissioned officers was generally, but not openly, fairly hostile. Firstly, there was a natural aversion to taking orders from someone who'd learned his soldiering from a textbook. Secondly, most commissioned officers came from the upper classes or upper middle classes, and there was a general animosity between the classes.

Never judge a book by its cover

Every day contained more mental and physical stimulation than I had ever experienced. There was always something new to absorb; as they redesigned us: taking the basic material that was us they coaxed, teased and shaped us and as the days and weeks passed, each made of different metal, we reacted individually to the process.

Most of us had enlisted as junior soldiers or junior drummers, with an odd few actually joining as junior bandsmen; however, there was a process during the first three months of training, as they turned the heat up, when the real forging began. Like tempering steel: heating, cooling, pushing and pulling; applying pressure from every conceivable angle; eventually making or breaking us.

As previously mentioned, there were a few who signed on as bandsmen, but in fact musical ability had little to do with the final equation. There were those who didn't make it of course, but the ones who made it and were deemed not in possession of a hardy spirit were persuaded that perhaps they would be better suited to the band or drums. Those earmarked for the band and drums who displayed that hardy spirit were given the option of changing to the junior soldiers. Not always successful, this method did however give them a bit of a safety net if they erred in their initial selection process.

There were some boys I related to more than others and I was lucky enough that my barrack room didn't seem to contain, for the most part, the egotistical elements that were defining the other three billets; for instance, there was less inclination to vie for positions of dominance. Interestingly, most of the boys in my room were destined for the band and drums.

When visiting Steve at Malta Barracks before I left school, one of the things that had impressed me most, and in fact made up my mind about joining Junior Para, was the confidence and self esteem emanating from the young soldiers. Little did I realise how hard come by that self esteem was.

In my first three months I experienced more physical and psychological exertion than in my whole life to date. For most of the new recruits just getting up at 06:00 every morning was a new experience. One thing not new for me; I'd been delivering newspapers, morning and evening, for almost two years and 06:00 was a half hour lie in for me.

Every morning began with some form of intense physical exertion. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, after a 07:30 muster parade, was the Company 'road, walk and run'; except the name was a bit of a misnomer: no walking (unless you dropped out, and then you were subjected to such abuse that most didn't do it again) and not much road. The only road part was the bit leading to the tank tracks: a wilderness area of miles and miles of muddy hills and valleys, broken occasionally by acres of wooded enclaves. It should have been called simply 'the tank track runs!' A training area we shared with the Royal Armoured Corps. Most of the time, we ran ankle or knee deep and sometimes waist deep in mud and water; and this while wearing boots, putties and denims. Unless of course, on occasion (or in the advanced platoons), wearing full battle gear: webbing and pouches weighted to simulate carrying ammunition et cetera.

Tuesdays and Thursdays, after the 07:30 muster, began with square bashing: marching drills, with or without weapons, until you thought your feet would fall off.

Physical training and conditioning was a major part of our daily routines; when we weren't running or marching we were in the gymnasium doing hours of circuit training, or doing task specific stuff like Battle PT: the assault course, with or without rifles, and sometimes with logs: telegraph pole sized logs, carried in teams of four or six. Battle speed marches, in full battle order with rifles, over roads and across country (country being generally the tank tracks of course). Then there was weapons training, handling and drills; learning about and mastering the small arms of the British Army, until you could strip, clean and assemble each and every weapon in seconds flat. There were endless hours on the firing ranges becoming proficient marksmen in those weapons until they were your best friends. The main weapon of an infantry soldier was of course the Self loading combat rifle (SLR), but the weapons we familiarised with included the Browning high power pistol, the Stirling sub machine gun (SMG), the Light machine gun (LMG), the General purpose machine gun (GPMG) in the light and the heavy role; plus the various grenades, mortars, rocket launchers and the Carl Gustov (the main anti-tank weapon).

There was always something to learn or new skill to perfect as they moulded us into elite shock troops; from close quarter combat, with and without weapons, to orienteering and battle tactics.

Unlike regular infantry, the Paras worked in small units; designed to be dropped behind enemy lines, working on there own, using a kind of guerrilla warfare against superior numbers. There wasn't a day go by that we didn't chant some Parachute Regiment rhetoric. The Parachute Regiment motto is 'Utrinque Paratus': 'Ready for Anything'. The Junior Parachute Coy motto was 'The Strong Shall Live and the Weak Shall Die'. The Airborne was our brotherhood and indoctrination of the Red Devil creed was fed to us daily, in large doses.

Being a junior leaders company they also had our education to tend to, so that by the time we progressed to the regular battalions we had the educational qualifications to take us to senior NCO's. So, somehow, we managed to also fit in two full afternoons of English, Maths, Geography, Current Affairs and Regimental History. Besides all of the above, the responsibility of not only the washing, ironing and maintenance of our own kit, weapons and various uniforms et cetera fell to us, but also the cleaning and maintenance of the entire camp; including living quarters, amenities block (showers and toilets etc.), cookhouse (kitchens and dining room etc.), grounds, stores and company offices. All of this fitted into a five and a half day week, and could have us busy until 21:00 daily, culminating at lunchtime on Saturday – unless we were on manoeuvres, in which case we could be at it for weeks at a time.

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During the first few months I watched the clique-forming as two or three boys from each billet took a dominant role, with various others grouping around them. The ensuing power struggles between those groups for supremacy over the whole intake resulted in conflict and, inevitably, regular outbursts of violence.

Although as I said, for the most part, it wasn't happening in my billet, Slick Bletchley, professing to be something of a boxer, was probably the most vocal.

Paddy Hanson’s confident manner, as he strolled down the centre of the room, totally belied his almost alter boy like appearance.

Anyone got a spare cigarette! said Paddy in his clear southern counties accent, with the merest hint of an Irish lilt coming through.

From one of the other billets, Paddy was a lieutenant of another youth, Brummy Richards who – at seventeen years old, due to his size, maturity, and the fact that he had demolished a huge opponent in no uncertain fashion – was now considered the kingpin of the whole intake. Paddy, on the other hand, resembled a rather pale, under nourished fourteen-year old.

It was Saturday afternoon and I was lying on top of my bed with my beret over my face. The Saturday morning camp inspection had taken place just before lunch and now most of us were relaxing or getting ready to hit the town.

Fuck off back to your own room and cadge fags! growled Bletchley in his thick Yorkshire accent. I moved my beret just enough that I might watch the unfolding drama.

A simple no would have sufficed, said Paddy unperturbed.

Fuck off! Before I drop ya! snarled Slick, and rising from his bed he dropped his half finished cigarette butt onto the highly polished floor and ground it under his boot.

Memory Point: 'Tch, tch, tch, what a waste; and what a mess you’ve made of this beautiful floor! says Paddy calmly, shaking his head.

Obviously more than Slick Bletchley can stand, with an enraged roar he quickly closes the gap between them and lets loose with a big right fist. A blur of motion ends with Bletchley flat on his back, staring up in amazement. Stepping back, Paddy allows him to get to his feet. By now I'm sitting up.

It isn’t until later that we piece together what actually happened: Paddy, nimbly side stepping and ducking under Slick’s swinging right fist, while simultaneously grabbing a handful of hair with his left hand, jerked his head backwards and clubbed him to the ground with his right fist in an unorthodox hammer-type action.

Slick gets to his feet, slowly, his eyes never leaving Paddy. Standing calmly, hands by his sides, Paddy watches Slick shape up like a boxer. Approaching cautiously this time, Slick jabs out a straight left. Moving his head slightly, Paddy expertly slips the punch. Slick then moves in with a quick left, right combination, but again Paddy’s head isn’t there.

Suddenly, Paddy moves forward, delivering kicks and punches at such a speed and in such a manner that I, nor any of the other boys, have ever seen before. This time the blur of motion finishes with Slick on the floor and Paddy holding two handfuls of his hair, one leg cocked, ready to smash a booted foot into Slick’s face should he refuse to quit.

Paddy strolled out of the door barely two minutes after his casual entrance. Slick Bletchley certainly learned the hard way that you should never judge a book by its cover.

In Britain at that time, anyone who practised judo was considered a bit of a traitor: feelings still ran rather high concerning the Japanese after WW II, and I had never heard of karate.

The rumour quickly spread that Paddy Hanson was an expert in some kind of Asian fighting art; nobody knew for sure and it was to be years later, after Paddy and I had become close friends, that I found out the whole story.

*

I was a different person than the individual who'd boarded the train just a few short months before.

Arriving home on my first leave, from the moment I stepped from the bus in Keresley to walk the remaining half mile or so – dressed in my uniform, red beret at a jaunty angle, low on my forehead – I was treated like a homecoming hero.

I went to meet my sister, Jane, from school and all the while people, young and old, exchanged pleasantries with me; I'd never received so much respect.

After dinner that evening I smoked a cigarette in front of my parents for the first time; my mother said she hoped I wasn’t smoking too much and my father just mumbled something about me making my own decisions now. I spent a lot of that first evening talking to my sister. I couldn’t for the life of me remember why we'd fought so much.

‘Strange how different a place can be, from an altered point of view’ I thought, as I lay snuggled up in my bed that night.

After sleeping late the next morning, I went for a walk around the village. Running into Hughie Donnely and Allan Rivers I ambled along with them, chatting and passing the time of day. It had been almost six months since I'd been in their company and things had changed.

For as long as I could remember, Hughie had been my friend, some times my best friend. Over the years we'd fallen out for various reasons but we always eventually made up. A tough boy by necessity: his family and background; less than a year older than me he was honest and moral, and had even been my protector on occasion.

I had known Allan for most of my life too; a couple of years older than me, I knew him as a brutish bully who'd played the antagonist in my life right up until I joined the army.

Memory Point: Do you remember that fight I had with John Thomson? I say, laughing at the memory. Allan and Hughie laugh along with me as we each remember the incident from our own unique perspective. Do you remember?… I say between fits of laughter as they join in my infectious merriment. That day… and I almost collapse in hysterics, How you dragged me off John, by the hair, when I had him cold, punched me in the face and slammed me against the wall?! My innuendo is obvious and Allan’s laughter abates, but I'm clearly still in good humour and soon he's caught up in the infectious euphoria once more.

The laughter subsides into a few moments silence as we walk on, lost in our own particular thoughts, and then I burst out laughing again.

"Do you remember…? Ha ha ha… that day when I stalled your bike? Ha ha ha… I'm now laughing fit to burst and my two companions are almost collapsing on either side of me. Suddenly, completely absent of humour, I say, That’s when you punched me out!!" and in one swift movement, drawing my fist back sharply, I turn on him…

Not much had changed in their lives, but I had grown in size, strength, confidence and ability. I’d been on a learning curve they could barely imagine; fast-tracking the change from schoolboy to soldier.

The look of shock on Allan’s face as he jumped away, raising his arms in defence, was all the revenge I needed and I burst out laughing again. Hughie, who'd stepped back involuntarily, was quick to rejoin my mirth, but relief broke slowly over Allan’s face; before he too, nervously at first, began laughing again.

We spent the rest of that afternoon pleasantly enough, but all three of us were aware that the situation between us had changed forever.

*

Remember?... said my father, causing me to pause on my way out. The door gets locked at eleven o’clock, sharp!

I remember! I said, but what I was thinking was, 'up yours!'

My father had beaten and intimidated me until shortly before I joined the army. The catalyst had come a few weeks before leaving home. After making the decision not to give in passively to anymore beatings, terrified but resolute, I stood up to him. The time had now come to reinforce that understanding.

I went out with some boys I'd been talking to after leaving Hughie and Allan earlier that day; older boys who previously would not have given me the time of day. Getting very drunk, I slept on the floor at one of their homes and returned the next morning just in time to get changed and leave for camp. My father gave me a stern look, but said nothing. My mother fussed a little but after a cursory, Out with some mates and got back late, so I slept over at Ken’s! she gave my father a ‘That’s your fault!’ look, and dropped the subject.

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Chapter 2: Can’t Live With Them, Can’t Live Without Them (back to ToC)

Party till you drop

On my return, to my amazement, I was informed that I'd narrowly missed being appointed leading soldier: the first step for those considered NCO material. I had not remained as inconspicuous as I’d imagined. There were only four leading soldiers picked from over sixty; consequently, I felt that I was under the microscope.

Where previously I'd felt little or no pressure to excel, but had obviously done quite well, I was now afraid of not living up to expectations. Leading up to the Christmas break I was convinced that everyone was watching and passing judgement, and I became increasingly uneasy.

Steve, on the other hand, was made a leading soldier in his platoon and took to it like a duck to water.

Christmas came around fairly incident free, although my confidence had definitely taken a down turn. The Christmas break was just what I needed and two weeks into the festivities, at a party in Steve's house, I was in a much better frame of mind.

Tom. This is Gwyneth! introduced Steve with glowing pride. We hadn’t seen much of each other over the break. He and Gwyneth, whom he'd known from childhood, had been spending time together; while I'd been involved with festivities in other circles.

Hello! I said, smiling. It’s nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you. She blushed and smiled shyly.

Come on, I’ll get you a drink! said Steve, steering her in the direction of the makeshift bar. He glanced back briefly, smiling and I gave him a nod of approval before wandering off to find Jossie, my date for the night. As the party got underway the drinks flowed, the music got louder and everyone began to relax, talk, dance, and in general party on.

During the course of the night, while dancing with Jossie, I'd noticed Gwyneth watching me. She was a pretty, petite little thing with big brown, almond eyes and long dark hair. I took the attention as a boost to my ego, as any youth at the blossoming of manhood might, but she was Steve’s girl so I thought no more about it.

Memory Point: The party is in full swing and everyone is a little drunk; Steve and I are on our second bottle of scotch. On my way back from the toilet I almost collide with Gwyneth in the hallway. We smile at each other and I try to side step, but attempting the same manoeuvre we still bar each other’s way. I move again, and once more she makes the identical move. Now, facing each other yet again, we burst out laughing.

The laughter slowly subsides and Gwyneth puts her hands on my hips. I find myself gazing into her soft, brown eyes and as if by magnetism our mouths are drawn together. Suddenly the lounge-room door opens; startling apart I look up to see Steve, wild eyed.

"McKinnon!!" he yells venomously, before turning on his heel and disappearing back into the lounge room.

"Steve! It’s not how it looks!" I call after him, frantically.

Gwyneth runs after Steve, while I follow dejectedly. Feeling guilty and embarrassed, I stagger through the lounge room where the music has stopped and everyone is staring, wondering what has suddenly changed the mood of the party.

I could hear Steve outside shouting, incessantly, McKinnon!! Get out here! You bastard! with my head spinning from the drink and the sudden change of pace, I headed for the back door.

Steve, please liste–!

Shut up! Slut! Just shut up!! I’m going to kill him! interrupted Steve, as Gwyneth tried to calm him down.

Steve! Please listen to me?! It wasn’t Tom’s fault. It was m–

Shut up! And get out of my way! he exploded in her face as I stumbled out of the back door and crashed into the garden shed.

My whole world had suddenly turned into a nightmare, and try as I might