“Please remember that the sentence we ultimately pass is for all the members to decide,” I cut in, “and I’ll open it up for deliberation in a moment. However, my advice remains unchanged. Coming from me, as the judge, it should carry a lot of weight – as you well know, Major.”
I looked round the table. A young female captain looked as if she were about to cry and Robin Gabfern’s face was furrowed in a frown.
“Anyway, the proper procedure is to ask the junior member first and then go up the ranks.”
A young lieutenant, stuttering slightly, indicated that he felt that dismissal had to be a matter for his superiors. He was followed by a hoary warrant officer from a Scots regiment.
“Well, I’ve known many scrotes like Bisley in my time, if you’ll pardon the expression, but it’s up to you officers really to decide what should be done for the army’s sake.”
I turned to the female captain, who blushed.
“I-I’m a nurse so don’t have much experience of the disciplinary process but I do think that it’s very harsh to send him to prison after all he’s done for us.”
“Nevertheless, he’s committed a serious offence and lied about it. What sort of example do we set to the other soldiers if we don’t get rid of him?” the warrant officer added.
“So that leaves you then, Brigadier?” I asked Gabfern.
“Terrible, terrible shame to have to get rid of this man. What he did was horrible, but we do train them to fight and he was severely provoked. However, we must take the judge advocate’s advice – he is the expert.”
“Legal not military,” Strawbridge sneered. “Think what we lose if we discharge him? How can any civilian lawyer assess that?”
Biting my tongue to suppress my anger, I extracted a book from a pile in front of me and turned to a tagged page.
“You needn’t just accept this from me. It’s all in the Military Court Sentencing Guide, and I can quote chapter and verse:
‘When a soldier commits an offence of wounding with intent to commit grievous bodily harm, the appropriate sentence is normally one of a substantial term of imprisonment.’
I looked up.
“Substantial means a term of at least three years. Had he pleaded guilty we might have been able to reduce it, but that’s not the case. Moreover, Cockaigne could have killed Bisley had he severed an artery. Four years must be the right sentence.”
Three of the members nodded reluctantly.
“Two years’ detention, I say,” Strawbridge spluttered, “but I know I’m outvoted. Just remember what we’re doing to this bloody man’s life, that’s all. We were told that he’s divorced and has no family so he’ll land up on the streets as an alcoholic, I expect.”
Gabfern rounded on him.
“Major Strawbridge, please remember that uttering such immoderate remarks in front of junior officers is quite unacceptable.”
“Very sorry…sir!” Strawbridge barked, using that peculiar army tone of voice which, although sounding subservient, denoted profound disagreement.
Indeed Cockaigne used the same tone of voice, as he stood to attention after the sentence of imprisonment and dismissal was pronounced.
“Thank you…sir!”
Back in my room, I became aware of the sudden atmosphere of hostility which sometimes grew instantaneously after a court martial had reached an unpopular decision. The hitherto helpful court orderly took his time in bringing me a cup of tea and when it did appear some of the contents had been slopped in the saucer. In the members’ room next door I could hear low muttering, mainly from Strawbridge.
A minute later, Robin Gabfern appeared at my doorway.
“Damn shame really, Charles, to finish that soldier’s career but you legal chaps always know best. Easier I suppose, to be on the right side of a desk than the wrong side of a gun. But then you’re not in the army, are you?”
He turned away before I could answer, stung by his remark.
A feeling of isolation washed over me for a moment. Life working with the British military in the middle of Germany could prove to be very trying on occasion.
I was packing my robes, making ready to leave, when Harry Chess appeared at the door.
“Sir, would you mind not leaving yet? There’s another case in the offing involving a squaddie called Caley. He’s been charged with possessing three tablets of ecstasy, found in his wallet which he dropped somewhere here on Dortmund Garrison. The convening officer has asked whether we could deal with it today.”
Surely the convening officer should have come in himself to ask, I thought, but then remembered how upset the regiment were over Cockaigne.
“I’m quite happy if they can convene a court at such short notice. When did this happen?”
“Only two weeks ago, but I’ve had a word with his defence lawyer, Amy Earnshaw, and her client wants to get the case over as soon as possible.”
I nodded. Captain Earnshaw was one of the army’s in-house lawyers posted to Dortmund and who often undertook defence work. She was reputed to be very able and many soldiers preferred to be represented by her rather than a civilian lawyer.
“That’s fine if they can set it up today.”
Except that I dreaded Strawbridge being involved. Happily, that proved not to be the case. Strawbridge was due to go on leave, so Robin Gabfern was asked to be the president instead.
Early one morning, lying on the ground, a wallet had been found just inside Dortmund camp. Handed in to the guardroom immediately, examination of its contents soon led to the identification of the owner as his army pass was inside. Further examination also led to a small cellophane package falling out and the guard commander, suspecting what this might contain, looked a bit closer. When he saw that the packet contained triangular tablets, marked with tiny wings, he knew exactly what they were: Ecstasy, the drug of the moment. All NCOs had been instructed to report any evidence of the new drug to the RMP, and, in due course, Private Caley was arrested.
So now, a district court martial (three members, as opposed to five) had been convened to try the case. After the formalities, the defendant pleaded guilty to the charge of possession of a Class-A drug. Captain Earnshaw rose to her feet.
“Sir, members of the court,” she said. “My client has admitted the possession of these tablets because, legally, he had no alternative. He accepts that he put them in his wallet, but there are special circumstances which you should take into account when you come to sentence.
“Moreover, he is also well aware that usually a dishonourable discharge is well-nigh inevitable for this sort of offence but when you hear what actually happened you may take a different view.”
“Fair enough, Captain Earnshaw,” I said. “Probably the best way of dealing with this is for you to call your client to give his account after the prosecution informs us of the basic facts. Major Chess can then cross-examine him if he wants.”
Caley duly went into the box. After Chess’ opening, his counsel soon established that he had joined the army only 18 months before, partly to escape a wretched background in the North East of England. Abandoned as a child, he and his younger brother had been brought up in Newcastle where the latter had developed a drug problem.
On his first leave, Caley visited his brother, Joe, who was now living in a hostel for reformed drug addicts. The latter was now ‘clean’ – no longer taking heroin or cocaine – but still in the habit of popping the odd ecstasy pill at nightclubs.
Caley, mindful of what he had been told whilst in the army about the harmful effects of ecstasy, was furious and a row ensued. Eventually Joe handed over the few pills he had in his possession, which Caley said he would destroy. The two brothers then went into town and hit the beer together. Caley, after spending the night on his brother’s sofa, departed the next day, having forgotten all about the pills which he had stuffed in the back of his wallet.
Now, an anxious-looking Caley stood in the witness box.
“Did you ever remember having those pill
s in your possession, before you lost your wallet?” asked Captain Earnshaw.
“No, ma’am. Thing was, the next day my bro’ and me had a helluva hangover. I almost missed my train back to Hull to catch the ferry. Day after that I was at work cleaning tanks ready for parade. Friday, we all goes down to Brazilla’s for the evening and I must have dropped me wallet on the way home. Right hammered, I was.”
This was hardly surprising news. Madame Brazilla’s was a notorious nightclub (which also doubled as a brothel) situated just outside the perimeter of the compound, much frequented by squaddies determined to get drunk.
“I don’t think that it’s in dispute that when you realized you’d lost your wallet you trooped over to the guardroom straightaway to claim it back. Did you think about the drugs at all then?”
“I never thought, ma’am – I’d forgotten all about them. I wouldn’t have gone otherwise.”
Chess did not challenge his account and asked only one question.
“Even if you hadn’t gone to the guardroom yourself the wallet would have been traced back to you as the ID card was in there all the time, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose so, sir – yeah.”
So, once again we were engaged in the sentencing process. It was a relief that Strawbridge was not present and I would be able to explain the sentencing principles without him chipping in.
“Possession of any sort of illegal drug is, quite rightly, always regarded as a serious matter in the army. The sentencing guidelines are clear enough. If a Class A drug is involved, dismissal is usually automatic following a period of detention in Colchester.”
Robin Gabfern nodded.
“I agree absolutely, and this approach has been debated right up the chain of command to a very senior level. No soldier touching drugs can be allowed to remain in the army. An example must be set and there can be no exceptions.”
I frowned, shaking my head.
“Brigadier, that’s not completely correct. A court martial is a court of law like any other and we must assess each case judicially. That means on its merits.”
Gabfern bridled at this.
“Sir, I don’t need to be reminded of our responsibilities. I must say that although you’re here to tell us about the law disciplinary matters are the concern of the army high command and I, as a brigadier, am best placed to speak on their behalf.”
“Of course I accept that, Brigadier, but we must look at the facts of each individual case. Nobody is suggesting that Caley brought the drugs back to Germany for his own use. What we heard from him is that he confiscated them from his brother. Of course, he should have flushed them down the lavatory or got rid of them in some other way but he said he forgot about them altogether.”
“Isn’t that the rub? The pills are nestling in his wallet all the time, yet he never notices them. Realization should have struck him at some point.”
“Well, the fact is it didn’t. In fairness, he only had the drugs in his wallet for a relatively short period before losing it after leaving Brasilla’s. We must give him the benefit of the doubt and accept what he says.”
Gabfern sighed.
“All right, on that basis I think we can reduce any custodial sentence we need to pass – say to 28 days – but dismissal must still apply. He was in illegal possession of a Class-A drug: an absolute deterrent is required.”
“I think you’ve made your position clear enough, Brigadier, but you shouldn’t have done before hearing the views of the junior members, which is the rule,” I protested.
“Oh, I agree with him though,” the young female captain said. “There’s no place in the service for people found with drugs.”
The other officer followed her lead also.
I knew it was unfair and that Caley should have been given another chance. At worst he was guilty of gross carelessness in taking a Class-A drug back to Germany, but did it justify the loss of a career which he obviously loved and would be the making of him? Now he faced ruin, particularly with his background. But, on this occasion, I was outvoted by three to one and Caley was duly dismissed.
The ramifications of both these cases were to weigh on my conscience in ways that I hadn’t expected...
Eighteen
At least I was now established in the centre of Bad Zur Linde. The original timbered mediaeval house (which now contained three flats) had been destroyed in the Second World War but since then had been lovingly restored. In fact, the exterior had been remade so that it was an exact replica of the original – even to the extent of having the 16th century’s householder’s name replaced on the front in Gothic script. Redecorated inside, the ground floor flat was small but perfect for my present needs. A door led from a quiet alley directly into a sitting room with a marbled floor covered with scatter rugs. At the back, a small galley kitchen looked out on a yard, large enough to sit out on a warm day but not overlooked by any other building.
Work fizzled out altogether in the ensuing months. An insurrection in a British ex-colony and more trouble in Northern Ireland meant that troops were transferred from Germany and many cases were put on hold as a result.
Apart from review work which I completed at Brockendorf in the morning, I found I had a great deal of spare time so embarked on reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace and other books about Russia. Gorbachev’s reforms in the Soviet Union had meant I was beginning to take an interest in Russian history, and now was the opportunity to indulge in some serious reading on that subject.
So when I learnt that a professor of history from Cambridge was giving a lecture about the Romanov czars at the Brockendorf Cultural Society, I was determined to attend it – despite the fact it was being held in the garrison’s officers’ mess. I had no wish to run into Strawbridge, but knew he was not the type to attend and reckoned that he would have gone into dinner before I arrived at 7 p.m.
On the appointed day, I found the bar to be virtually empty apart from a couple of officers I didn’t know. Helping myself to a coffee from a table, I decided to indulge in a pre-lecture drink. I noticed that Corporal Bennett was on duty – someone who I had come to know well whilst living in the mess and who was always good for a casual chat. Seeing him by the hatch, busily polishing some glasses, I called over to grab his attention.
“How are you, Corporal? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
At first I thought he hadn’t heard. Knowing that he was a South London man and a great supporter of the Tulse Hill Football Club, I added, “Saw in one of the papers recently that your team had just been promoted to the Premier League. You must be pleased?”
Bennett turned but said nothing, swiftly averting his eyes as he picked up another glass.
“Tell you what, I’ll buy you a drink on the strength of it. Meanwhile, can you give me an Apfelschnapps to accompany my coffee?”
Bennett, not looking at me, mumbled that he didn’t want a drink. Taking a bottle from under the counter, he poured a small measure of spirit into a glass and, without saying a word, plonked it down on the bar. He then went back to polishing the glasses.
Somewhat nonplussed, I took a swig from the drink and almost choked! Since living in Germany, I had become partial to their local corn spirit which, although potent, was pleasant enough to drink if flavoured with apple essence but this was the rawest stuff available – unflavoured and usually only drunk by the hardiest German labourer.
“My God, Bennett, this isn’t the apple stuff. You’ve given me the gut-rot instead!”
Bennett began to walk towards the back door of the bar.
Without turning around, he muttered, “Sorry, ran out of the apple – that’s all we got.”
I was getting annoyed.
“Well, you can have this back. Give me a brandy in its place, please.”
But Bennett ignored me and didn’t return.
Now it was time for me to go into the lecture in an adjoining room. I soon found an empty space in a row of seats alongside the Chisholms. Major Jock Chisholm was the chairman o
f the Cultural Society and I had become friendly with both him and his wife at previous meetings.
“Peggy, Jock – how nice to see you. It’s been an age,” I said.
Neither of them replied. Jock, sitting closest to me, pretended not to hear and leaned forward to speak to a man in front of him. His wife appeared to be engrossed in her information leaflet. As the lecture was about to start, there was no further opportunity for conversation. At its conclusion, Jock went up to the lecturer to proffer his thanks and Peggy rushed off before I could attempt to speak to either of them again.
Realizing that I had been sent to Coventry, I lost no time in leaving but when I went to retrieve my car from the car park I was in for a further shock. My new car, one of the latest Mercedes which I had recently purchased tax free, now bore deep scratches on all the doors and the bonnet.
“Good God!” I exclaimed, running my hands over the gouge marks which I suspected had been caused by a key.
“Serves you bloody well right.”
Strawbridge had followed me out, a glass of whiskey in one hand and an open newspaper in the other.
“Verne! What the hell do you mean? Do you know who did this?”
“Who caused that criminal damage, you mean?” he sneered. “Could be anybody, couldn’t it? I imagine many people in the army would want to – after what happened to poor old Cockaigne.”
“Cockaigne? What are you talking about?”
“You can’t have seen this,” he said, waving the paper at me, “otherwise you would never have dared show your face in this mess again.”
I grabbed it from him and read the headline:
‘TOP ARMY EX-INSTRUCTOR HANGS HIMSELF AT WANDSWORTH JAIL’
And below that, in smaller print:
‘Former army sergeant Paul Cockaigne was found hanging in his cell yesterday morning by prison guards. Cockaigne, once a top instructor from Sandhurst, left a suicide note next to his body, explaining that life was no longer worth living since his dishonourable discharge from the army. Several prominent MPs, including a former army officer, have called for an enquiry, asking why this outstanding soldier had been sent to an ordinary prison as opposed to the Military Corrective and Training Centre at Colchester.’
Wig Betrayed Page 12
