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INITIATIVE
TEST
A
story from real life
by
Prints as 6 pages - Words 5180
PROLOGUE:
Kidnapping
somebody is not as easy as it looks on TV. I know, because I’ve tried it.
Kidnap scenarios are high on the list of turn-ons for a lot of SM game-players.
Great as a fantasy, but in real life to be forcibly abducted when you’re not
expecting it, without knowing why or what might happen next, is a scary
business. I can tell you that from experience, also. Even though I knew who my
abductors were and that I wouldn’t end up dead ... it was an intensely
unnerving business which I seriously didn’t enjoy. After forty years I can
still describe what happened moment by moment, move by move of my captors,
chunks of dialogue and even the structure of the knots they tied. Not because I
got any pleasure from it (at the time) but because the intensity is something I
haven’t experienced since.
SETTING THE SCENE:
In the
nineteen fifties, conscription into National Service in
I already had four successful years as a theatre
technician behind me. Immediately before Call-up I was (at the age of 21)
‘number one’ in control of complicated stage production with a cast, orchestra
and crew of over 100. I had learned how to ‘manage’ and enjoyed having the
authority. But, for my compulsory National Service I decided to make it as easy
on myself as possible. I chose Air Force because it was considered ‘superior’
to Army, and deliberately refused officer training because I wanted no
responsibility or future career from it. The idea was to stay anonymous, stay
out of trouble and enjoy whatever opportunities came my way.
The tough initial training period was a welcome
change from my previous employment. Never in my life had I been allowed to get
muddy or dirty or play rough games. I was fit enough when I joined, but enjoyed
becoming fitter. Choice of a ‘Trade’ for short-term non-career ‘Oiks’ was
limited. In my ‘Documents’ intimate details of my previous career status and
social status (extremely class conscious, the Royal Air Force), were put before
a panel of ‘Prunes’ (Officers). They decided that, in spite not wanting to
become an officer, I was a ‘Decent-Sort-of-Chap’ and assigned to RAF Signals.
I’m not sure how it would have affected their evaluation if my documents had
revealed the fact that I had also spent ten years as an amateur escapologist
and was a card-carrying masochist.
Training in Signals = telephones, telex, ciphers
and code, and Air Traffic Control. A gentlemanly business for the men and women
involved; clean, comfortable and ‘cushy’, especially as I was ‘posted’ to a
non-operational Base (no aeroplanes!) in a not too remote country area. Duties
left enough time and energy to enjoy facilities on offer, such as occasional
off-base physical training courses which permitted extra time away from humdrum
routine; rock climbing, mountain rescue, air sea rescue, diving, unarmed
combat. New skills and new challenges. I wasn’t the best at any of these
pursuits but did earn a reputation for having a shot at anything (physical).
The opportunities were there and it was better than codes and ciphers. The
physical training instructors on the Base were a tough bunch - but generous to
those who appreciated their skills. Predictably, they were all that odd blend
of sadists-and-masochist under one skin, born to challenge and eager to be
challenged. But, however much I was tempted - my skills as a would-be Houdini,
I prudently kept undisclosed.
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 persuade
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.
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).
This would involve us walking together like three merry fellows who’d already
had a few drinks in the Club and were now heading ... past the Guard Post ...
out of the main gate and off towards the village pub. My mind raced ahead to
the opportunities which this might afford. Security on this easy-going camp was
far from strict (No IRA terrorist threat in those days). Foot traffic in and out
of the gate was continuous because officer’s quarters, married quarters and the
local pub were all only a short walk from the main compound. Ever hopeful, I
realised that most of the guards knew me by sight because they also used the
gym and I’d been on courses with them. With any luck ‘Big Toby’ or one of his
mates would be manning the gates and call me over for a chat.
As two more rain-ponchos appeared and were slipped
over two bullet heads, their woollen caps (which distinguish these hard-nut
visitors from the more conventional RAF personnel) were firmly pulled down
around their ears and eyebrows. My distinctive RAF cap, bearing it’s flashy new
‘Codes and Ciphers’ badge, symbol of my trusted status as knower-of-codes, was
retrieved from the mud. It disappeared into the rucksack and a woollen cap was
crammed firmly over my ears until it almost covered my eyes. When this was
arranged to their satisfaction my attention was drawn to the fact that ends of
the rope at my front were quite long. ... long enough to disappear under the
ponchos of the man on either side of me. Taking up the slack they neatly
demonstrated that they had considerable control. They also explained that one
false move as we passed the Guard Room would result in my suddenly falling over
... amid much merry laughter. I would then be hoisted onto a brawny shoulder
(hanging rather limp) and be carried out of the gate while the third member of
our party remained at the guard post to explain how I (another ‘Turk’) was the
looser of a wager and about to be dunked in the local brook. Our boys on guard
duty have learned not to get involved with the carryings-on of these highly
volatile visitors who live life by different rules.
INTO THE DARKNESS
Reason
prevailed and I walked out of the gate flanked by two walls of glistening khaki
rain-cape, who waved cheerily to Big Toby as he munched a doughnut and watched
TV. Out into the soggy night we walked. Our sudden detour behind a hedge and
into a field went completely unnoticed by man nor beast. Only when we were
safely off the main road did they let go of their lead strings ... and reveal
The Plan.
For their ‘test’ they had been ordered to capture
and transport someone (?) from point A to point B - fifty miles away with no
transport provided and deliver them to an ‘enemy’ camp. I began to think I
should have fought harder in the first place. Somehow they knew about my recent
training in the latest code and cipher technology and decided this would score
extra points with their Evaluators.
Technically, they had planned well. Two more metal
framed ruck sacks had previously been stashed in the field. Determined that I
would carry one and not give them any trouble, they described in graphic detail
their plan B which involved them dragging a sack with me inside it over the
entire distance if they failed to hitch a lift. Their alternative (plan A) was
for me to behave myself and walk with them. Having never been that much of a
masochist, I agreed to the rucksack - because it meant having my arms unroped -
I thought. Wrong! The metal back-pack frame fitted neatly over my bound wrists
and the shoulder/waist/chest straps of the frame secured even further the
already escape-proof roping. With the rain poncho back in place and collar up,
they were ready to move out into the rainy night, even if I wasn’t. However, I’ve always been an optimist. Ever
hopeful, I decided to wait for any opportunity that might arise - it didn’t.
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
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 TRAILS CONTINUES:
It had
stopped raining so they stowed their ponchos before moving ahead - but mine
stayed on, covering my arms now strapped firmly down the sides of the metal
back pack (I made a mental note that this was a useful piece of equipment). My
mouth had been re-taped - having failed to convince them that I wouldn’t draw
attention to my plight if left un-gagged. Their caution was justified because
we soon met a couple of farm workers who happily stopped to chat with three
tired trainee squaddies (well, chat with two of them). They helpfully suggested
a quicker route to our destination which would take us through the next couple
of villages rather than around them. As we walked on, my captors discussed the
possibility of taking this shorter route - and I began to speculate on
opportunities to at least embarrass them if not totally destroy their hopes of
a successful exercise.
Maybe it was something in my walk or the glint in
my eyes, but they began to discuss the risks involved in taking me through a
village - but they seemed to relish the challenge and began to speculate about
seriously uncomfortable means of preventing me from wrecking their project.
Their most convincing argument was that they had 24 hours in which to deliver
me - and we’d only done six so far - and could achieve their destination in a
further four, maybe less. Pushed against a tree they explained into my face a
few of the things they could do to/with me in the available extra fourteen
hours. You’ve heard of Good cop/Bad cop interrogation techniques - well, these
were Bad cop/Worse cop competing with each other to invent more effective
deterrents.
They reached a decision - to (A) demonstrate their
ability to stay in control, and (B) take a look around the village without
having to keep an eye on me. An army sleeping bag and a few tent-pegs later,
they were free to take as long as it took to explore the village and “have a
couple of drinks when it’s Opening Time”. I was left under a hedge with nothing
for company but an occasional rabbit and my thoughts. At that point in my life,
with ten years of Houdini interest behind me, 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.
As the time ticked by under my hedge, neatly
wrapped up and pegged down, my mind went back to other occasions during mountain
rescue exercises ... and on a parachute jump course ... and a diving course. In
each incident the instructors had humorously demonstrated the little tricks
traditionally played on recruits. All under the guise of harmless manly fun,
trainees were left hung up in training harness, the winch unaccountably jammed
- left unable to get out of a diving suit, all the instructors suddenly off
doing more important things - lashed naked to the goal posts when everybody
went off to the showers because I had declined to join the Section rugby side.
Each incident had been part of what seemed to be paying the price for belonging
to the ‘Inner Circle’ - perhaps my enjoyment rather than resigned acceptance of
it all had blown my cover.
How long my abductors were gone for I had no idea -
but I had pee’d before they got back ... I couldn’t exactly tell them because
they didn’t take the gag off. However, it’s amazing what body language can
achieve even when bundled up and pegged down. I grunted urgently to indicate
that I needed to tell them something - and they asked what - offering several
interpretations to my frantic grunting.
“Need the bog?”
Nod, nod, nod.
“Shit or slash?”
(British army jargon).
“
“Shit or slash?
One nod for shit, two nods for slash”.
I nodded once,
very emphatically.
“He needs to
crap, Charlie”.
“You think so,
Robert?”
“Looks like it, Charles”.
“I’m not so sure that’s what he’s saying, Robert. I
think you’ve misunderstood. I think he’s saying we should let him out of the
bag so he’ll have a better chance of spoiling our plans - isn’t that right,
Sunshine? We know your little games, Stewart. All about your little games.
We’re surprised you’re even still here because from what we were told, you
think you’re something of a Houdini. Well, we’ve decided we’ve proved you’re
not - and there’s a weekend pass for us starting soon as we’ve delivered you
and finished our test - so we have plans for getting you to our Depot quick as
we can, right Bob?”
“Right you are, Charlie? - so, you stay in the
sack, Sunshine and you stay gagged - and if you crap you crap - because at this
stage of the game we’re not taking any unnecessary risks. Am I correct,
Charles?”
“Indubitably, Robert. We’re officer material - and
know all about crap.”
“But in case you think we’ve done with the
Houdini-bit, we haven’t. Charlie and I worked out a little plan over our bacon
and eggs in the village caff. We convinced a couple of local lads that our
training mission is to transport a piece of very heavy equipment across country
and deliver it to an Army depot (not Air Force base, you’ll note). We made them
feel very sorry for us - so once we get you to the village they’ve promised to
give us a lift to the Base. Isn’t that generous of them - and you’re not going
to embarrass us, are you, Stewart. That isn’t a question. You are going to be
an inanimate object, Stewart; a piece of mysterious equipment - a Top Secret -
Thing. And we are going to carry you, comme ça.” he said producing a chunky
wooden pole. “One carrying pole, requisitioned for the purpose.”
PACKED AWAY:
The following half hour is burned into my memory. I was assisted into a
kneeling position still inside the soggy sleeping bag and ‘invited’ to
straighten my arms down my side and reach for my ankles. In this position I was
expertly roped so I would remain there. From experience I knew that in that
position the next however many hours were going to be excruciatingly
uncomfortable - if not dangerous. As if reading my mind one of the two
oppressors reassured me “Don’t worry, Stewart, we’ve decided two hours top
whack before you’re delivered and signed for. We’ll make sure they let you out
immediately, rather than keep you there so they can show you to their friends,
won’t we Bob?”
“Well, we’ll try Charlie, but you know what these
army types are like. Not like those nice polite Brylcream Boys in the RAF.”
There was little time to dwell on this prospect
because surprising things were happening: Two metal-framed rucksacks, still
lumpy with their contents, were being lashed along either side of my body.
During this complicated process it was helpfully explained to me that this was,
in essence, a camouflage exercise. The shape of the eventual package must not
even hint at it’s ‘top secret’ contents. The third rucksack frame was fitted
above my head and shoulders in such a way that any head movement would be
inside the frame. Found objects were gathered from the woods, anything to mask
the internal shape.
From one of the rucksacks a plentiful supply of
rope appeared - and so the covering of the package began. Now, I’m good at
wrapping awkward shaped packages, but these two lads really got into the spirit
of the thing. With three waterproof poncho/groundsheets and unlimited rope to
play with they took their time to prepare what I’m sure must have looked like a
very plausible piece of heavy equipment. I had absolutely no way of knowing.
The rolling from side to side to get the thick
covering on every side and roped to keep it (and me) firmly in place, actually
helped to postpone the inevitable cramping that I knew the kneeling position
would produce. Luckily, I was younger then and fit - but I was very nervous
that there would not be enough air inside the waterproof covering which was
rapidly becoming more securely roped. But, they’d thought it through - and,
speaking loudly into the dense covering, reassured me that air was available
through two carefully concealed openings - which, they then demonstrated could
be closed at will from outside. They confidently stated that they expected me
to play along. Another factor was how the lifting and shifting would intensify
pressure on my already aching (and sticky) body. A running commentary from
outside kept me informed that the lifting pole was ready to be tested.
Surprisingly, they’d calculated well. My suspended
weight didn’t too much increase the lateral pressure. I swayed a lot - but they
soon let me know they were ‘just testing’. I had fears of vomiting into the gag
- and the situation is not one I would, in the light of experience, recommend -
but I was in no position to argue and was preoccupied, steeling myself to
survive the rest of the journey - plus the embarrassment of arrival at ‘the
depot’ which would inevitably be enjoyed by many - an RAF man captive and humiliated
in a Royal Engineers army depot - and there was no hope that news of the ordeal
would not get back to my home Base before I did.
The penultimate development was to learn (hear)
that the offer of a ride to our destination included the truck meeting us at
the end of the lane, well outside the village. So, the journey on the pole was
relatively short - but the encounter between the four guys at the lane end was
much more eventful than anticipated. Of course I could only hear indistinctly,
but it soon became obvious that the two Turks were deliberately talking loudly
so I could get the gist of what was going on. They thanked the two locals for
their help and described the effort of having carried the ‘Equipment’ over
fields for more than thirty miles. The owners of the van were impressed, asking
how heavy and what was in the package. The elaborate evasiveness of ‘Charlie
& Bob’ seemed calculated to stimulate curiosity. The dialogue need not be
repeated here in detail, but questions about weight; fragility; whether the
package had to be kept upright - all seemed to invite further curiosity. Hands
roamed the covering - more than two pairs. It was obvious, as the voices of the
two locals also became louder that, whether by sign or prior information, they
knew what was inside the package.
Hands roamed and groped and probed around the
covering and my body, as voices loudly speculated on what the package could
possibly contain. Tilted first to one side and then the other, I was
systematically allowed to rest on all six sides as the feeling and squeezing
intensified and the ‘bad acting’ vocal commentary continued. This slightly
unnatural dialogue took a decidedly sinister turn as compliments on the
efficiency of the packaging began to dwell on the fact that it was seriously
waterproof. The army guys elaborated on the fact that it had rained for the
first twenty miles they had ‘carried’ the package.
The first voice to say it needed to pee was one of
the locals. The two army guys agreed that it might be wise before lifting such
a heavy load into the truck - and all agreed. Whether the covering was fully
waterproof or not I had no way of knowing in advance. Being inside a waterproof
sleeping bag I suppose it didn’t really matter - but it mattered to me at the
time. Whether by accident or design I was lying on my back which was more
comfortable than kneeling - and my head was almost inside the front rucksack -
so however many gallons rained down on the package, mercifully, I was proof
against it - but it was situation totally outside my experience or taste. I was
in no position to complain either then or later.
They tired of their fun - and handled the package
onto the truck carefully, discussing as they did, whether to take the short or
long route, the “good road” or the “bad road”. They discussed at unnecessary
length whether they should lash the cargo down. “Wouldn’t do to have it fall
off the back at forty miles an hour.” But Charlie and Bob rode with me in what
I discovered was an open pick-up. I was kneeling again, their boots braced
against my sides (or, more accurately, against the two rucksacks). They talked
to me during the journey, thanking me for my co-operation, promising to keep at
least some of the details to themselves - but suggesting that as soon as we
arrived at the depot they should get the guys at the Transport Pool to hose the
package down. Bob decided it might be more practical to do it at a petrol
station on the way - because they had a couple of extra pairs of willing hands
to help with the process. The two locals enthusiastically accepted the
additional opportunity to play games. I assumed it was Bob and Charlie who
managed to hose the jet of water in through both breathing holes just for good
measure. Eventually, the van delivered us right into the army depot - where the
ensuing scenes need not be remembered.
I’ve enjoyed re-telling this true if unbelievable
story after nearly forty years. It was an event I never lived down during the
rest of my Air Force career - but one positive result was that, after getting
back to my own Unit, I was from then on referred to by every man (and woman) on
the Base as ‘Houdini’, a situation which brought with it a few added bonus
opportunities, such as being invited to help plan ‘Escape and Evasion’
exercises, and finding out more from the physical training instructors about
fighting someone into a strait jacket. In fact, several times I did get to play
the part of an unwilling patient, before my term in the RAF ended and I was
allowed back into the Real World.
END
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