It goes without saying that I would never do anything, such as revealing tactics or covert operations, that would put my colleagues' lives at risk. Why would I? Being in the SAS is all about respect and support from your comrades. That respect and support continues well after you retire. That is always my number one priority. There was no way I was going to put that support system in jeopardy. It was too important in helping me keep my head in the right place. Laymen, ordinary people, even close friends and family, cannot possibly begin to understand the life that SAS troopers lead, the experiences they've been through. It's not even worth trying to communicate it. My only measure of reality and sanity is with my own comrades. They know. They've been in my world. They were there too. They saw the unimaginable, did the unthinkable and felt the unspeakable.
It wasn't my best career move. I didn't think of the long-term consequences. SAS memoirs had already been published, but writing unsanctioned articles for a tabloid was pushing the boundaries too far. The articles duly appeared in the Daily Mirror over three days and they really ruffled the feathers of the Head Shed. It would have been fine to have a discreet article printed in The Times, but not to give the Regiment the mass-market treatment in a downmarket redtop like the Mirror – that was far too brash, far too in your face.
That's when the ban came. I was in shock. I hadn't expected this bolt out of the blue. I suddenly felt isolated and alone, cut off from the Regimental support system. Sure, I could meet up outside with my colleagues who'd also retired, but nothing can replace the feeling of pride and belonging when you go along to official Regimental functions. It's like being part of a family. That was my therapy. That was my counselling, my talking cure.
As if the ban wasn't bad enough, worse was to come. When it came to work, my phone suddenly stopped ringing. There was obviously an unofficial blacklist doing the rounds. I had it on good authority that the word went out from serving Ruperts to former colleagues who run all the firms in the private bodyguarding and security sectors. First banned, then blackballed! The final insult was when I heard on the grapevine that the Head Shed was looking for a way to take my Army pension off me. I was in serious financial difficulties. It felt like I'd just left the Regiment all over again. I was well and truly stressed. Was there a glimmer of light in this dark landscape? Well no, none at all.
26
A Living Hell
Worse was to come. Late one evening I was heading fast down a dual carriageway, eager to get home. The dual carriageway had been coned off to form a one-way system in both directions. Only the central set of cones separated you from oncoming traffic. As I was driving through this one-way system, a car approaching from the opposite direction suddenly swerved through the cones and came straight for me. I braced myself for the impact, locked my arms and turned the steering wheel hard left, just managing to avoid a head-on smash. There was an almighty 'bang' and a metal-on-metal screeching noise as he hit my offside door. The collision smashed in the doorframe which struck me on the head, nearly knocking me out.
The car rolled and came to rest on its roof in a ditch at the side of the road. I could feel the blood running down the side of my face as I released the seatbelt and crawled towards the passenger door. I couldn't believe it. This was a rerun of Bosnia. I was even using the same method to struggle out of the vehicle, but this time I could feel more pain. I didn't have the sleeping bags around me to cushion the impact. From my experience in Bosnia the fear of the vehicle bursting into flames returned, so I moved quickly to vacate the vehicle. As I collapsed into the ditch, blood pouring into my right eye, in my confused state I halfexpected to see an ambulance with a Red Crescent on it.
I was rushed by ambulance to a local hospital. I was experiencing pain and swelling in both knees and both ankles and there was a stiffness in my wrists and elbows – the result of bracing myself for the impact. The skin on my right forearm and knee was ripped to shreds and hanging off in places. I also had a deep laceration on the right side of the forehead. I was not in good shape.
Back in Hereford two days later my worst fears were confirmed by the consultant orthopaedic surgeon – I had ruptured both the cartilage and ligaments of my knees. I'd be out of action for weeks.
I'd have plenty of time on my hands, but this was the last thing I wanted. Laid up and immobilized with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and stare into space. Time to brood, time to think back to my Army days. Time to think about all the good mates I'd lost. And was still losing. My car crash couldn't have happened at a more stressful moment. I had just heard on the Hereford grapevine that Nish, an old friend from B Squadron, had suffered a psychotic breakdown. He began to think his girlfriend was the devil and had stabbed her but thankfully hadn't killed her.
Sure, the stress hits you when you first leave the Regiment, when you walk through those camp gates for the last time. That's a huge change. Re-adjustment doesn't come any bigger than that. But here's a chilling statistic, this is the really devastating bit. The medics have studied squaddies who've committed suicide due to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The average time between a man leaving the Army and topping himself is thirteen years. That's a helluva long time to feel bad. You'd think if they were going to end it all, they'd do it when they first retire from the Regiment, when they leave all their mates behind and at first their lives seem meaningless. You'd think the stress would fade with time. Everything else does – grief at losing a loved one, upset at a marriage breaking down. Time is the great healer, they say. Not true. If you've been in the Army, time is the great killer. The memories just fester over the years like ditchwater. They just get more and more stagnant, more and more stinking.
You're climbing Everest when you leave the Army. As the years go by it gets harder, not easier. You're toiling higher and higher up the mountain towards the danger area. Perhaps after thirteen years you reach the high-altitude death zone. At that point, for some, putting one foot in front of another becomes a huge effort. For them, the brain becomes more and more abnormal. Just like the climbers deprived of oxygen, their judgment becomes impaired, they become confused, they start to hallucinate. Their existence becomes a living hell. And just like the climbers, they don't care if they live or die. They are deprived of normality. They just want to lie down and give up. Like the Everest mountaineers, these men are fighting fit. They are highly trained, highly experienced professionals. But something gives way. Being hit by PTSD can be just as deadly as an enemy bullet.
Nish had fitted into the timeframe. He had already been on a cocktail of anti-psychotic drugs for some months. They made him drowsy and lethargic. He never went out. He thought the whole world was against him. He was a prisoner in his own front room. How could Nish, a man who'd won the Queen's Gallantry Medal, end up shuffling around with a vacant, spaced-out look on his face? Crack soldiers cracking up. That's bad.
If you go to the Regimental plot in St Martin's churchyard in Hereford you can see the headstones of Laba and all the others. At least they went out in a blaze of glory. Their deaths had a purpose, a meaning. For Nish it must have been like fighting the battle of Mirbat every single day of his life. Instead of hordes of Adoo charging at him, it was the demons of depression pouring across the plains towards him day after day after day. But the minute the battle's over and the war is won, our soldiers are discarded and rejected. The MoD acts as if they're somebody else's problem then. The physically and mentally wounded, they're a blot on society's conscience. They're kept hidden away, neglected and dismissed. They're only wheeled out once a year on Armistice Day at the Cenotaph.
Sometimes even your family can't help. I don't know what clocks up more damage to your marriage – joining the SAS or leaving it. When you go in, your family never know when you are going to be off at a moment's notice to some far-flung corner of the globe, how long you'll be gone or whether you'll ever come back. When you leave the SAS they have to cope with the aftermath of all that. When the guns fall silent, they can sound even noisier in your head.
Your nearest and dearest have to cope with your mood swings, your drinking, your night sweats, the action-packed flashbacks playing on the big screen in your brain. You're still lumping into the enemy, still chopping them down as if it were yesterday.
I don't know about PTSD but PRAC (Post-Regimental AntiClimax) can be just as big a problem. That's why I needed to keep active, to keep involved with projects and that's why being laid up on crutches was such a ballache. Too much time to think. Too much time for the guns to roar in my mind. I couldn't let it get to me, though. Self-discipline, that's what I needed. I drew on my military training to pull me through, those dark days in the Woolwich hospital and those first days out of the Army when I felt cut adrift from the world I knew and loved. I knew that I was alone. I had only myself to rely on to ensure that I didn't go the way of Nish and others like him. Andy McNab had the right idea. He'd seen his fair share of action and he states to this day, 'I only ever think about the next three hours. Today's today. If it works, it works. If it doesn't, it doesn't. You control what you can and the rest, fuck it!'
27
On the Ragged Edge
There was nothing to cling to apart from my deep-down stubbornness. Nil Carborundum – don't let the buggers grind you down. Somehow, I had to pull myself out of this dark pit I'd fallen into.
I compiled a hit-list of firms on the circuit and contacted them all. Zilch. Word had well and truly got round. There was nothing for it but to try to set up my own network of contacts. Being banned from the SAS, I could no longer get the mainstream jobs on the established circuit. I had to completely change my outlook, force myself to ring round for the fringe jobs that were often not only dubious to the point of being only borderline legal, but were considerably less well paid as well. When at last one of my calls was returned I was mightily relieved. A spark of daylight at last! Then my heart sank. I thought it was some kind of cruel wind-up.
'I've got a bit of work for you, Pete, if you're interested.'
'You bet.'
'A bit of BG work. This is the most intelligent principal you'll ever have looked after.'
'You've got me going now. What's the principal's name?'
'Flipper.'
'Flipper? Bit of an odd name that.'
'Not for a dolphin it isn't.'
'A dolphin? A bloody dolphin?'
'Very intelligent creatures, dolphins.'
'Yeah, but are you having a laugh? Bodyguard a dolphin?'
'Well, not bodyguard exactly…'
My caller went on to detail the task in hand. Windsor Safari Park had hit the rocks and gone into receivership. We heard all the staff were on the fiddle and were raking off a fortune because of the lax supervision. So some mates and I went down and kicked everyone out, including the gate and security staff.
The park had managed to rehome all its animals apart from one baby dolphin. The animal rights activists said it was cruel to keep it in captivity in a small pool, and that it was suffering. They threatened to break in and kill it, put it out of its misery. But in the event they took one look at us guys and decided against it, and eventually Winsor Safari Park managed to find a home for its dolphin. The park's still there, now called Legoland Windsor. So everyone lived happily ever after. Apart from me.
My career went downhill from there. My career was really bumping along the bottom. I had a string of similar jobs: safeguarding salmon from poachers on the River Dee in Scotland; protecting pheasants against gangs of thieves on the Lichfield Estate near Whitchurch in Hampshire; watching over beagles, rats and guinea pigs when animal rights activists planned to raid Ledbury Animal Testing Station; preventing elvers on the River Wye being stolen and spirited away in the dead of night to end up on the tables of rich Japanese businessmen. It was work, Jim, but not as we knew it. Champagne and diamonds this most definitely was not. But at least I was getting paid. That's always the bottom line.
* * *
Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. I was up against pond life of a different kind. Hippies! Every year at the summer solstice, druids flock to Stonehenge. The druids say that they can trace their roots back 4,000 years and claim it's their birthright to touch the stones. During the Seventies and through to the mid-Eighties they'd been allowed to have a free festival there every year at the solstice. In 1985, for some reason, the police and English Heritage decided to put an end to the festival gatherings.
Despite the ban, a large convoy of New Age travellers – calling themselves the Peace Convoy – headed for the stones. A four-mile exclusion zone was set up, the police tipping lorry-loads of gravel across the roads to prevent access. The police's infamous Special Patrol Group was deployed, and after a standoff lasting several tense hours the shit really hit the fan. The Special Patrol Group went in with all guns blazing, beating people with truncheons and smashing their vehicles with sledgehammers. It was ridiculously hard. There were women and children caught up in the battle, whole families arrested and separated, children locked up away from their parents. A court case later found the police guilty of wrongful arrest, assault and criminal damage. Ever since then at the solstice, the stones have been roped off and guarded.
At the solstice of 1995, the authorities were expecting trouble – Combat 18 types had taken to beating up the festival-goers at Stonehenge. That June was also the tenth anniversary of the Special Patrol Group's notorious deployment and the police didn't want to know. So the authorities hired us – all ex-SAS veterans, with combat experience stretching across three continents and two decades – to protect some stones from some hippies and some hippies from some thugs. My days guarding Flipper were starting to look like a career highlight.
The trouble all kicked off on the eve of the summer solstice. We had set up Hippie Control in the Stonehenge car park, which was nearly a quarter of a mile north of Stonehenge itself. Big Fred the Fijian, a good friend of Laba and Tak, was the team leader. The rest of us were ex-B and G Squadron. The most impressive guy there was John Barker (JB), ex-G Squadron. Tall, muscular, and dressed in a black karate suit, he could have quite easily starred in a remake of The Terminator. I looked at my watch. Nearly time to go on stag over at the stones. Suddenly something very colourful caught my eye. A double-decker London bus pulled into the car park and rolled to a halt. It was covered in psychedelic paintings that would have put John Lennon's Rolls-Royce to shame and the occupants looked like leftovers from Woodstock. 'Fucking amazing! I'm back in the Swinging Sixties,' I thought to myself as I left the car park.
I checked my radio was on and began my patrol round the stones. I stopped for a breather over to the south-east of the circle. I was stood marvelling at the construction and wondering how the fuck they managed to get those huge stones into position, when a glint of sun on glass caught my eye.
Looking south-east from Stonehenge, the ground dropped away towards the A303. Once across the road, the land formed a small hill with a wood on top. The horizon was about a thousand yards away. Through the mini-binocs I could see figures forming up out of the wood and making their way downhill. I knew instinctively this was the thugs' main assault group. I spoke into the radio, 'Contact, contact. The bus is a distraction. I repeat. The bus is a distraction. Deploy immediately to the south-east of the stones. Rent-a-crowd is coming in through the back door.'
'Roger that,' said Big Fred the Fijian. Within minutes the guys had arrived, Big Fred and JB leading. We did a quick appreciation of the situation and all came to the same conclusion. We shook out in extended line, Stonehenge behind us, and awaited the arrival of the opposition.
It was like being on the rifle range. Targets to your front. In your own time. Carry on. By now a handful of them had crossed the A303 and had realized that they had made a big mistake. It was a steepish climb up to the stones and we held the high ground. We had the tactical advantage, and they were going to have to fight uphill. We were now getting our first good look at the opposition. These were no longhaired hippies. Short hair, military-style jackets an
d Doc Marten boots, these were the hardliners, real Combat 18 thugs. They'd come here for a fight, not to hug the stones. But they'd made the most basic error in the book. Coming uphill, they were at a disadvantage. They couldn't get organized. They had no formation and began picking their way uphill in dribs and drabs.
The first of the opposition was now halfway up the hill. They were lead by a tall, well-built bruiser. 'See that fucker,' shouted Big Fred. 'I want him taken out.' JB, hard, fast and aggressive, moved forward. By the time Big Bruiser realized the danger it was too late. He tried hitting out, flailing his fists, but JB from his elevated position towered over the guy. One well-executed karate kick sent Big Bruiser staggering and reeling backwards. The thug lost his footing, hit the deck and rolled down the slope of the hill. A collective cheer went up from the lads.
At the sight of their leader being humiliated, the rest of the opposition began edging towards us aggressively. Their blood was up. They came straight for us, screaming obscenities, about a dozen of them charging en masse. As they closed in, you could see the hate in their eyes and hear the rasping of their breath as they laboured upwards. They didn't stand a chance. There was a flurry of tattooed fists flailing and Doc Martens swinging, but to no avail. They were literally fighting an uphill battle. They soon found themselves on their arses, rolling down the hill towards the A303. Things now became fragmented into individual punch-ups. A lot of the opposition had fallen back and only a few hardcore thugs were left. I swung at one shaven head and noticed a swastika tattooed behind his left ear. As he went flying, I thought 'David Stirling would be proud of me. The SAS still battling the scourge of the swastika!'
Soldier I Page 37
