The
story opens ...
In the
Fifties, conscription into what was called "National Service"
in Britain meant leaving the job you'd probably only just started and
spending two years wasting time. World War Two was over; fighting in
'trouble spots' (which did not include Ireland) was mainly the province
of career servicemen, who resented and despised the two-year time wasters.
Some were pressed into active service, but most National Service draftees
spent their Call-up learning a trade or continuing their education.
The
author describes the initial impact of basic military training and
the trainers ... which ends ...
... Interestingly,
a special advanced course for combined forces was also run by these
training instructors. Not exactly SAS but selected career army, navy
and air force hard-nuts were invited to visit for 4 week intensive courses.
I volunteered for the course but wasn't eligible, being National Service.
Perhaps just as well because their physical skills were way out of my
league! These elite squads who came and went were generally know as
'Turks' because they spent their entire time there in full dark combat
gear, and were a law unto themselves, or rather - to the officers, specially
trained to keep them in line. My request did, however, bring one advantage.
It persuaded my Signals Section Commander to promote me to corporal rather
than risk losing me permanently to more active employment. This allowed
me to use the bar also used by the physical training staff, who were
all corporals or sergeants. The down-side was that my promotion demanded
I should become Chief Assistant to the NCO in charge of Codes and Ciphers
... which caused me to become a 'target' and get unceremoniously abducted.
Chapter
Two: The 'Snatch'
Part
of the short sharp course for each intake of Turks was a final Initiative
Test. That's how I came to be 'snatched' one damp November night smack
in the middle of the main compound. I was off-duty, heading out of the
NCO's bar because a rowdy drinking session was building up. Two beefy
Turks were suddenly standing immediately in front of and behind me as
though we'd been buddies for years. Passers-by passed by without a second
glance at three men apparently in intimate conversation. Anyway, nobody
messed with Turks. I had only had one drink, but two oppressively close
rock solid jaws quietly convinced me that they could quickly make me
look drunk to the point of falling over. They instructed me to accompany
them behind a shed ... which I did, almost without my feet touching
the floor. There, pushed against a low metal fence, my mouth was taped
before I'd even thought of making a noise.
'Swift
and silent' I evaluated mentally before I was suddenly uncomfortably
bent almost double over the fence. While my feet were being kicked wide
apart, the Turk in front pressed down on the top of my spine. This left
the man behind me free to begin roping my wrists efficiently behind
my back while pressing me into the fence with the full weight of his
body. He took his time. My experience as an Escape Artist automatically
swung into play as I followed the progress of an efficient square lash
taking shape in the middle of my back. Like being in a car accident,
it all seemed to be happening in slow motion.
'Hands
parallel with the waist,' I thought ... 'Palms against forearms.' 'Unusual',
I thought as a fist from behind me gripped my hair and a vicelike arm
circled my throat.
I watched
the stars and felt the rain on the part of my face that wasn't covered
with adhesive tape, while the ropes from my wrists were knotted in front
of my waist and then systematically run through both elbows pulling
them forward before the rope was knotted with emphatic finality below
my rib cage.
'Impossible
to reach' I decided calmly as my neck was released and I stared mutely
across the fence into a pair of piercing steel blue eyes .
Suddenly
I was looking at the floor again, collar gripped firmly from behind.
The athletic figure ahead of me was stooping to produce something from
a back-pack behind the fence. I anticipated a sack over my head as everything
went dark - but my head emerged out of the other side and I was standing
up wearing an army rain poncho-type ground sheet. For the record, it
wasn't the sort of lightweight kit they use now. Back then a groundsheet
poncho was thick khaki rubberised canvas with a tall collar but no hood;
at front and back it reached to below the knees, at the sides below
the finger-ends and had metal eyelets all round the edge for when used
as a ground sheet. It completely covered my roped arms I noted as the
grim-faced Turk in front carefully adjusted the high collar so it easily
hid my taped mouth. The body weight which had been clamping me against
the fence withdrew slightly but a mouth, dangerously close to my ear,
advised me to keep my legs well spread or walk like a duck for a week.
Now, with
two determined-to-pass-their-initiative-test Turks looming on either
side of me, they quietly explained the differences between achieving
their aims the 'Hard way' or the 'Easy way'. I decided to co-operate
(at least in the short term).
The
captive is smuggled out of the camp and 'persuaded' to walk with them
his bound arms and taped face hidden beneath an military rain cape
...
The secret
fact that I'd been an enthusiastic amateur Escapologist (and card-carrying
masochist) since an early age meant that I was experiencing the situation
on a level completely unsuspected by my two captors - but I did begin
to wonder if something I may have said around the Physical Training
Instructors might have resulted in me being targeted as victim in this
particular exercise.
In fact
I had, on one occasion when socialising with the PTIs (Physical Training
Instructors), tentatively brought up the subject of training medical
personnel to deal with violent patients. They'd told me that the RAF
Regiment (The Air Force ground fighting force and hard nuts) were usually
called in, but the medical orderlies could earn promotion if they became
proficient in unarmed combat - and to prove they could physically subdue
and restrain a violent patient was part of the promotion test. The P.T.I.
had admitted they trained the orderlies and evaluated the tests ...
but they themselves were too skilled to play the violent patients.
This dubious
honour, they'd told me with relish, usually was offered to any poor
sod who was up on charges for minor misdemeanours. They were offered
reduction of sentence if they, for just ten minutes would play the part
of a mentally unhinged and violent patient. While offering this alternative
to six or eight weeks of jankers (punishment duty such as tedious cookhouse
and other unpleasant tasks plus hourly check-ins at the Guard Room)
the ten minutes of no-holds-barred violence sounded like a good deal.
Not so! The orderlies knew if they failed to come out on top they'd
failed the course, if they succeeded they got promotion and a weekend
pass. The volunteer nutcases weren't told until it was too late to back
out, that it was in their best interest to put up a good struggle ...
because if they got subdued, the orderlies could keep them 'under-wraps'
for 48 hours and were free to get their own back for any minor damage
caused during the contest ... perhaps using the opportunity to practice
their skills with splints, plaster bandages, enemas and catheters. The
PTIs, in telling me this had sniggered and asked if I'd like a shot
at being one of the contestants ... and I'd firmly rejected the offer
... which didn't mean to say I'd mentally closed the door on the possibility.
The
story continues ...
We covered
about twenty miles before dawn - when they decided to take a rest and
some food. For me it was a relief to have the tape off my face - and
we were in a field far from any houses - so they weren't exactly taking
a risk. My arms were totally numb and I advised them (not mentioning
my special knowledge of circulation loss) that the rope should come
off "At least for a while"...? They agreed and I was duly
undone - a process achieved without them taking off the metal back pack.
As I gradually regained the use of my arms they showed me a duffel bag
which could easily and quickly be pulled over my head and roped at the
waist if I made any 'silly move'. Food ready, we sat down to eat - me
with hands free but rucksack attaching me to a tree. I couldn't stand
up let alone go anywhere - so I ate.
They amused
themselves while we rested, describing how two duffel bags with one
over my head to waist and the other from feet to waist - the two could
be then laced together. I tentatively suggested that such a sack might
draw attention to itself if it wriggled about. They considered the problem
logically and decided that if the sack was being dragged along over
bumpy ground the wriggling wouldn't be noticed - and if they dragged
the sack along the bottom of a ditch through fields, no one would be
there to notice ... and if they dragged it along a ditch with water
in it - I wouldn't be wriggling for long - because I'd start to co-operate.
I began to suspect they would pass their Initiative Test.
The
story continues for another 2700 words
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