Synopsis
I Was A Teenage Devil - But I'm Alright Now!
by T.D. McKinnon
   A memoir

'TEENAGE DEVIL' is also a true story. It is the continuing saga of Thomas, our protagonist from 'Surviving the Battleground of Childhood', and follows him into the British army. At just fifteen years of age he swaps the coalmining community for Aldershot: home of the British Army. In order to escape the environment that bound him, our intrepid survivor joins the Parachute Regiment as a junior leader. The story continues as he struggles to negotiate with his new environment, as one of sixty new recruits, and then follows him as he continues to grow up through the second half of his teens, steeped in the elitism of the Parachute Regiment. 
          Our hero encounters his fair share of adventures, and misadventures. On one occasion, an old devil comes-a-calling - a predator, disguised in the form of a senior RAF officer - and Thomas decides to commit the ultimate sin: to take a life. Fully committing himself to the task, can he actually do it?
          Searching for emotional validity, his trysts and affairs of the heart vary from fleeting, to sordid, to totally absorbing; until finally he meets the girl of his dreams. Holding on tight, for all he's worth, has Thomas finally found happiness? Or will it crumble, leaving him with a handful of dust and a sour taste in his mouth? 'TEENAGE DEVIL' is a sequel, but it stands on its own, dealing with a different set of, no less significant, moral issues. And it's still a story about growing up. 

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Sample Chapters
I Was A TEENAGE DEVIL But I'm Alright Now!
by T.D. McKinnon
 A memoir

                                                                  
                                                                         Chapter 1: OFF WITH THE OLD, ON WITH THE NEW
                                                                  

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. Resembling a gorilla in singlet and shorts: huge barrel chest, long ape-like arms and no neck he 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 making 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 on board 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 traveled 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, 'Pompy' 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 familiarized 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 molded 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.
          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. 

Sweet Revenge

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.
          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. 

                                                           Chapter 2: CAN'T LIVE WITH THEM, CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT
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 I couldn't bring anything into proper focus. Steve attempted to push passed her, but small as she was she did a good job of barring his way. I began to throw up; I kept throwing up until I was sure my intestines would be the next thing to come up.
          “Can’t you see he’s drunk, and very sick!” she screamed at him.
          “He’ll be a fucking sight sicker before I’m finished with him!” he retorted. With a supreme effort, I eventually stopped retching and managed to focus up the path just in time to see Steve pick Gwyneth up and throw her into the hedge.
          “All right Davis! If it’s a fight you want… I’m not frightened of you!” I heard myself say through a foggy haze.
          “Right!!” said Steve, jerking a thumb towards the front of the house. “On the front yard. Now!!”
          Taking a deep breath, I headed passed him making for the front of the house. Hearing Gwyneth scream I turned and, for the second time in as many minutes, saw her thrown into the hedge again. “Come on Davis!” I shouted. “Let’s get this over with!”
          It was over very quickly indeed. Reaching the centre of the yard I turned to face him and throwing a punch as he moved in I missed by the proverbial mile. I never really knew what hit me. He knocked me down with a crashing blow to the chin and I was vaguely aware of sprawling onto my hands and knees. The next thing my head exploded as he finished me off with a vicious kick in the head.
          When Bill, Steve's father, arrived home later that night he found the house in semi-darkness and the music playing, softly. Gwyneth and I were cuddled up in one corner, as she nursed my aching head; while in another corner Jossie tended to Steve’s injured pride.
          The following day, much to the envy of several Junior Paras returning on the same train, we kissed the girls goodbye as they saw us off at the station. Steve had been really keen on Gwyneth, I knew that Jossie was small consolation. Anytime I caught his glance, I could sense the residual pain flash behind his eyes. Eventually, seated in the buffet car with a beer, smoking a cigarette, I said, "I hope you know how very sorry I am, Steve?... I…I never meant for any of last night to happen."
          "I know," he said, attempting to smother the pain, before adding, "You can't help being so fucking irresistible!" and after a sardonic little laugh, "Seriously though, Tom, your looks could get you killed one day by some guy or other in a jealous rage."
          "Come on, Steve… How many ways can I say I'm sorry?" I felt as low as a snake and didn't know what else to say.
          "It's not just your looks, you know, it's that smouldering way you look at the girls; that 'Slow Burn' of yours," he said cynically. After a couple of beers we loosened up a little and he apologized profusely for kicking me in the head; before too long we were best buddies again, almost.
          Neither relationship lasted; we both got 'Dear John' letters from the girls. My head, however, was a different story. In fact I continued to get dizzy spells, head aches and ringing in my ears for months afterwards. Steve tried to persuade me to see a doctor but I stubbornly refused; eventually my head returned to normal, or as normal as it had ever been.
          Steve and I had fought, sporadically, almost since we first met as ten-year-olds: his dominant arrogance clashing with my arrogant defiance. However, realizing after that last little episode that we were not little boys any longer and could in fact, inadvertently, kill each other, we swore never to fight again.
          Taking several twists and turns, 1966 was an eventful year. Through my very defensive attitude – most people would have said I had a chip on my shoulder – I alienated myself somewhat from most of my peers. Although I had acquired a good level of proficiency in all aspects of soldiering, I was fast becoming disenchanted with the army in general. Basically, I just didn’t like being ordered around.
          Meanwhile, not only was Steve proficient he also had a good attitude, was confident and had a good relationship with his peers; he was promoted to lance corporal. Although in a different platoon, he was appointed NCO in charge of my billet. Occupying a small room of his own at the entrance to the main billet, he was responsible for the cleanliness, discipline and smooth running of the barrack room and the sixteen junior soldiers who lived there.

Love in the spring

I initially thought the incessant knocking was part of my dream. “Thomas are you awake? Thomas… Thomas, wake up!”
          “Yeh… yeh, I’m awake! What is it?" Entering my bedroom, Jane knelt beside my bed looking like the cat who stole the cream. “What are you looking so pleased about?”
          “Aren’t you getting up? It’s Ten o’clock you know.” Gathering the blankets around my neck I yawned.
          “Yeh… soon… give me a break; I’ve been getting up at the crack of dawn for months.”
          “I just thought you might like to know that there’s a girl outside asking for you.”
          She'd just said the magic words, “What girl?!” and she now had my undivided attention.
          “She’s outside on the green asking for you.” she said smiling triumphantly.
          “What’s she like?”
          Moving to the window and opening the blinds she said, “Have a look for yourself. That’s her over there with the big dog.”
          My family lived on Parkfield Road, and like most of the roads in Keresley, there was a part where the road looped around a small village green; ours was the first house in the loop. “Over there!” she said, pointing as I joined her at the window. It was a beautiful day, and squinting against the glare of the sun I could see a girl with long black hair squatting next to a large Alsatian dog, absently rubbing its ears.
          “I don’t recognise her!… Mind you, from this distance I can’t even tell if she’s cute?”
          “Don’t worry, she is…” assured my sister, “and she says she knows you!”
          Ten minutes later – washed and dressed, stomach full of butterflies, trying to appear cool and relaxed – I sauntered towards her. Standing up as I drew close, she gave me a warm smile; there was something familiar about the pretty, elfin features and the twinkling blue-grey eyes, but I still didn’t recognise her until at last she spoke: the soft, bell like tone of her voice was the only thing about her that hadn't changed…
          “Hello Tom. Don’t you remember me?”
          “Sue?” We first met, briefly, more than three years previously as thirteen year olds; she was dating Ken, a sometime friend of mine. We hadn't even spoken at that meeting, but as our eyes met we connected on a deeper level. About a year later we met again, that time she was Hughie's girlfriend; we spoke that time and there was a definite connection. I made a conscious effort to avoid her after that meeting, but the shit hit the fan when she told Hughie she couldn't get me off her mind. Hughie chased me with the object of beating me up; he didn't catch me, but he and I fell out for some time. I hadn’t seen her since; a lifetime ago.
          We walked miles, talking and laughing together, engrossed in each other's company; occasionally stopping briefly to kiss, when a car might toot its horn, or someone might call or whistled from across the street and we'd laugh before strolling on again. We spent most of that Easter leave, hand in hand, on endless country walks.
          “Tom! No!” she said sitting up and pushing me gently but firmly away. It was the last day of my leave, and after more than a week of nursing a permanent erection my frustration had driven me to try every sly, conniving, bold and brazen trick in my limited book of experience. Sue was standing firm. I would, yet again, have to relieve myself of the pain in my groin, later.
          “But, Sue… you’re driving me mad!” I said in frustration.
          “Look Tom… I think I love you… and, I will admit that I get randy too, but I think it’s too soon. Anyway, I don’t think lying in the grass, in broad daylight, is the right place for my first time. Do you?!” I lay back in the lush green grass, unashamedly displaying the obvious bulge in my tight jeans and lit a cigarette. “I wish you'd understand!” she said quietly, the tears welling up in her eyes.
          I’d hurt her again. Sitting up and leaning forward, I caught a tear running down the side of her nose, and then kissed her tenderly on her soft, down-turned mouth. “I’m sorry… I don’t know why you put up with me?” I said genuinely, and for a long moment we gazed into each others eyes.
          “Oh Tom!” she exclaimed, launching her petite frame at me, and we fell back, rolling together in the grass. Later as we held each other quietly, watching the sun set, she suddenly asked, “What are the army girls like?”
          “Oh… much like any other girls, I suppose.”
          “You know what I mean?!” she persisted. “Do they… let you…?”
          With an exaggerated expression of shock, I said, “Why… Susan Burns! I can’t think what you mean!”
          “Don’t give me that, Thomas McKinnon! You know exactly what I mean! And I want an answer!!” She then proceeded to tickle me until we were both laughing hysterically. The laughing and tickling quite naturally turned to kissing and fondling; eventually we became still, just holding each other again. “Tom,” she said, quietly against my chest. “I know you'll see other girls when you’re in Aldershot.”
          “Sue I–”
          “Don’t say anything! Just listen.” She fell silent for a moment, the sun was setting, the night closing in around us. “I just don’t want to know… about them! I didn’t know what to say. “O.K?”
          “O.K,” I whispered in her ear. She reached up and kissed me then, long and deep, before breaking away and running down the road. “I’ll write!” I shouted, as the night swallowed her.
          “I love you!” came floating back to me from the darkness.
 
                                                                                     Chapter 14: RAF ABINGDO
Home away from home:

Arriving at RAF Abingdon after Recruit Company and Maida Barracks – let alone Brecon and all that time in the field – little wonder I thought all my birthdays had come at once. Not only were we billeted in comfortable rooms with comfortable beds, there was also a dining room, not a cookhouse, a real dining room with cups and saucers as well as condiments and cutlery, and as much fresh bread as you wanted. Indeed, as much food as you wanted and the food was good, cooked well, with an assortment I’d never experienced, anywhere.
          Memory Point: “Oh yes…” says Paddy sitting down next to me. “I could take plenty of this.”
         “I reckon…" I agree, and then between mouthfuls, "I should have joined the RAF Regiment.”
          “With this kind of treatment all the time, you’d soon get soft,” says Rick, not bothering to wait until his mouth is empty.
          “I don’t give a fuck about getting soft…" Doc cuts in, “They treat us like real people, here.”
          “Well… I won’t be missing any of the Depot staff. And that’s for sure,” mumbles Paddy with a full mouth.
          “Yeh!”
          “My fucking oath!”
          “You bet your life!” the various terms of agreement chime in from around the table.
          We actually came under the Parachute Company Attached Unit, the PCAU and there were a few Parachute Regiment permanent staff at Abingdon, but for the most part, for the next four weeks, we were under the RAF dispatchers: sergeants and staff-sergeants, who treated us like real people. Muster parade was 08:30hrs, giving us plenty of time for breakfast after getting up at 07:30hrs; sheer luxury. Further more, our working week was Monday to Friday, which meant we had every weekend off and could even go home if we lived near enough. I lived about two-and-a-half hours drive away and could hitch hike home in about four hours. But after sampling the on-base NAAFI Club, the 101 Club, I didn’t think I’d bother going home: there were so many girls here that I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. The WRAF girls were plentiful and beautiful, but that was only the half of it; the civilian population around the base were friendly towards the forces, a huge change from Aldershot, and they even frequented the 101 Club on the base.
        
“When we get to a thousand feet you’ll feel a lurch as the winch stops,” said Staff Sergeant Wise, as I watched the ground move further and further away. The first man in the stick, in the first cage of the day; looking around the pinched, white faces I wasn’t quite sure whether this was a good thing or not.
         We'd been at Abingdon for two weeks, going through simulated parachute landing drills daily: running up and jumping off higher and higher ramps. The final simulated jumps were in a harness attached by a cable to a huge fan that allowed you to drop at a steady rate from a sixty foot tower, landing as though in a real parachute.
          Now here I was with a parachute on my back, standing in a balloon cage being winched slowly up on a cable from the back of a truck to float high above the Drop Zone (DZ). After all this time in the Parachute Regiment, at long last, I was about to take my first parachute jump.
          “Not long now!” The little dispatcher raised his voice to be heard over the wind whistling through the cage. The balloon lurched suddenly and everyone, except the dispatcher, grabbed for the sides of the cage; my stomach was in my mouth and I felt like throwing up.
          Besides the dispatcher, there were six of us in the cage and we followed a pre-planned sequence of drills, the first of which was to hook up our static lines to a cable on the ceiling.
          “Now… listen carefully!” said the parachute jump instructor (PJI). “Hook up!” I looked around the faces of my fellow, would be, paratroopers as I hooked up. They were all white as ghosts. “Check chutes!” We each inspected the parachute of the man in front of us as a final check; having already been checked at several points previously. A feeling of surrealism was flooding quickly over me. “Stand in the door!”
          As the first man in the stick I moved a step closer to stand immediately in front of the door. The only thing between me and the DZ a thousand feet below was a thin bar. “Don’t look down, Mac. Keep your eyes on the horizon,” the dispatcher said close to my ear, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the truck we were suspended from, which now looked like a match box toy.
          “Red on!” and as the little PJI said this he reached across and lifted the bar from the doorway. ‘Oh shit! Oh shit!’ I thought. ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’ and for a split second I wasn’t sure if I could do it; then a sort of calm came over me and I knew that there was no other way, even if it meant certain death, that I would not jump. In a way, it would have taken more courage than I possessed to refuse.
          Memory Point: “Green on!… Go!” Leaping into the void, before I really know what I'm doing, keeping my eyes on the horizon, I'm surprised when my boots come into view. Dropping like a stone for nearly two hundred feet, the events of my life seem to flash across the canvas of my mind; I'm quite prepared to die, here and now.
          When you jump from a stationary object, like a balloon cage for example, you’re top heavy; and because your feet are the lightest part of you they float up before your parachute fully deploys; which seems like an eternity.
          Suddenly, I seemingly stop, suspended by rigging lines from the canopy far above; now I feel such elation, the like of which I have never felt in my life. ‘Drills… Come on McKinnon… wake up,’ I tell myself, bringing my mind back to the task at hand, and looking up I check my chute. ‘No problems there.’ Should the parachute malfunction, I'll have only a few seconds to assess if I need to deploy my reserve chute. ‘Feet and knees together,’ I go through the drills in my head. ‘Relaxed but controlled,’ and then the ground rush begins.
          Suspended bellow a parachute, ground rush occurs in the last hundred and fifty feet or so as you're approaching the ground. It actually feels like I am hanging, quite still, in the air and the ground is rushing up to meet me; my instincts tell me to pull my legs up and away from the approaching ground or, conversely, reach out to meet it. Responding to either of these instincts can, potentially, cause serious injury.
          The many hours of drills and training come together and before I realise what's happening, executing a perfect roll, I'm on the ground. Turning my harness buckle I punch it with the heel of my hand releasing me from the harness; bouncing to my feet I let out a whoop of delight, “Whooohoohoo!” I feel ten feet tall and bullet proof. And then I have to empty my bladder.
         Walking along the DZ towards the rest of 318 platoon I had to keep my wits about me as the others from the balloon cage dropped around me. The landings varied from graceful to woeful, but the one thing that we all had in common was, to a man, immediately after landing everyone emptied their bladder.
          The guys who’d jumped were kept separate from those waiting to jump for the first time, and we chatted incessantly about how anxious we were to get back up there and jump again. The second balloon jump was meant to simulate jumping from the boom of a Beverly aircraft. On large-scale parachute drops we would be jumping from port, starboard, and boom of the old Beverly at the same time.
          I watched as the first man stepped into the thousand foot hole; and I peered into the hole as he dropped away: tilting back, feet rising, eyes wide as saucers, until his chute deployed hiding his face from sight. The next man out had his eyes screwed tightly shut as he fell away from the cage. Then it was my turn.
          Memory Point: ‘Oh fuck! This is much worse than the first time… No horizon to look at… Just straight down a thousand feet.’
          “Red on… Green on… Go!” Again, the endless hours of drilling take over and I'm through the aperture before I realise what I'm doing. My stomach lifts into my mouth, my body tilts back and I'm looking up at the fast diminishing hole in the bottom of the cage, where pinched white faces peer back at me until the picture is obstructed by my chute opening. And there it is again: that all-consuming elation: adrenaline shooting me higher than the proverbial kite.

“Jesus… They’re not having us on, are they?” said Martin Carter. The day following the balloon jumps we waited nervously as the aeroplane taxied towards us.
          “The fucking thing’s got masking tape holding the tail on!” remarked Paddy, unimpressed.
          “The tail's lower than the door,” I observed, not sounding anywhere near as concerned as I felt.
          The aeroplane that we were about to board was an RAF Hastings, it looked like something straight out of WW II and it did have a fair bit of, what looked like, patch work repairs, especially around the tail section. While on the ground, the Hastings sat at about twenty-five degrees and the door was higher than the tail section. It looked like if you leapt from the plane, at jump speed, the slipstream would take you right over the tail wing, or smash you right into it. However, when the Hastings was in flight it levelled out a little, which meant the door was about level with the tail and it looked like, for sure, you would smash right into it. Quite obviously that wasn’t the case as these planes were used for parachuting all the time, but as this prehistoric monster climbed into the sky and headed for the DZ, that knowledge didn't make us feel any better.
          “Stand up!… Hook up!” one of the PJI's yelled over the roar of the engines. The first stick, eight men, stood up and hooked their static lines to the cable running the length of the aircraft. “Check chutes!” came his second direction. They each checked the chute of the man in front of them, and then turning checked the chute of the man behind. “Red on!… Move to the door!” called the PJI stationed at the door. The first stick shuffled towards the door until the first man was parallel with the open door.
          “Green on! Go!” and the first man leapt through the door, and in quick succession the other seven followed, barely a second separating them.
          “Stand up!… Hook up!” called a PJI. Standing up, I realised for the first time that I was to be first man in the stick, again. My stomach was turning flip-flops as I struggled to remain standing when the aeroplane banked around for a second run at the DZ.
          “Red on… Move to the door!” Holding the strop and sliding my static line along the cable I shuffled towards the door with my stomach in knots. As I reached the door the PJI turned me and I was looking down onto beautiful green fields, it didn’t seem nearly as high as the balloon. In fact we were flying at eight hundred feet and as we passed over a farm someone was driving a tractor down a lane; I could make out the man’s face as he looked up.
          I was still looking down, mesmerize by the tractor in the distance when… “Go! Go!” and feeling a hard slap on the shoulder I jumped: I had missed the initial, "Green on, go!" order.
          Once out of the plane, whipped away by the slipstream, I was rocketing down an invisible slippery-dip; much different from the dead drop of the balloon jump. Suddenly the slippery-dip ride was over and I was suspended under a huge white canopy high above the ground in a beautiful blue sky. “Whoohooo!”

“Hey, Mac,” said Paddy quietly, as we waited for our drinks. Tearing my eyes away from the cute little behind I’d been watching, I found my friend beckoning me closer, a conspiratorial smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
          Paddy Hanson and I had become fast friends during our stay at RAF Abingdon. We shared a common interest, which we placed above almost anything else: girls. Regardless of anything that went on during the day, or anything we might have to prepare for the following day, we still found the energy to get ready and form an assault on the 101 Club, hunting for fresh game. Now we were drawing to the end of our stay at the RAF station; with only three jumps to complete the eight for our wings we would be heading back to Aldershot by the end of the week.
          As we leaned in closer Paddy glanced quickly around… “Are you looking forward to going back to that
Farra-Smythe, bastard?” My expression was more than enough answer. “I recon… we milk this place for all it’s worth.” I didn’t know what Paddy had in mind, but my interest was made evident by the grin spreading from ear to ear.
          When our drinks arrived we took them to a corner table for some privacy. “This is a full proof plan, not only to extend our stay in this holiday camp; it’s also our ticket straight to 1 Para.” I had applied to be reunited with Steve in 1 Para; I was hoping to join him in Aden. Eddy McGraw, a platoon member, had applied and they were letting him join his brother. However, it would still be a couple of years before Steve was, officially, my stepbrother; and as cousins, which we'd claimed, they said we weren't closely enough related. Paddy had applied and been accepted into 1 Para. 1 Para was the boxing battalion and Paddy was not only a former Amateur Boxing Association champion; he was also the British Army Southern Command junior champion. I of course had missed out there too.
          “But, you already have clearance to join 1 Para,” I said, a little confused.
          “Yeh, but I’d have to wait in Holdies back at Maida Barracks, or perhaps join them in Aden. Where would you rather be?” and my eyebrows rose, understanding dawning… “Exactly!” said Paddy; before adding. “We could hang out in this paradise until 1 Para comes back.” He grinned a mischievous little grin and when I returned it a positive gleam appeared in his dancing Irish eyes. Lifting our drinks, we clinked glasses to seal the agreement, and then downing the contents we ordered two more.
          The following day I walked off the DZ holding my arm, as if I had dislocated my left shoulder. The strange thing was that I had crashed in on my shoulder and although I was definitely milking it there was an element of truth, which helped me to carry it off persuasively. Paddy did his back on the next jump, staggering off the DZ very convincingly.
          Two days later we waved goodbye to 318 Platoon as they headed back to Aldershot. “By the way, Paddy, I’ve always meant to ask you, ever since I saw you demolish Sting Bletchley back when we were all just sproggs… was that some kind of karate you were doing?”
          “Fuck, Mac… that was a long time ago,” he said, giving a little chuckle at the memory.
          “Yeh… I know, but I didn’t know you back then… In fact It’s only since we joined the Cadre that we’ve become friends, and It’s taken a while to get to know you enough to ask about something that happened a couple of years ago.” He chuckled again but said nothing; lifting his glass he drained the contents. “Come on Paddy?…” I said impatiently: I'd waited a long time to find out this little snippet.
          “Well…” he said as if he was going to tell me, and then turning to the barmaid he said, “Two more of the same, please love?” After paying for and collecting the drinks he led me away to a table. “It’s quite a long story…” he began and he went on to tell me a little about his upbringing. He had, inadvertently, ended up doing some time in an approved school, and because he wasn’t very big he had to be twice as nasty when it came to defending himself against those who would take advantage. “You’ve got to watch out for the poofftas… if you know what I mean?” I nodded – I had a very good idea what he was talking about – and he went on, “I did a bit of boxing and a bit of karate and a shit load of scrapping… The nastier you are in a fight: the less likely you are to get picked by anyone watching, or anyone who hears about it!”
          I'd seen Paddy in action, both in and out of the ring, and I believed he had a capacity for violence, or nastiness as he termed it, but I also felt intuitively that Paddy and I had something in common: compassion; he was one of the good guys.
 
The devil within

Paddy and I became part of the PCAU’s permanent staff for a couple of months, with RAF Abingdon our adopted home.
          Hitchhiking home one weekend it only took me two-and-a-half hours to get home – I'd managed to get a dream lift, almost all the way home from about five miles out of camp – and then three-and-a-half hours to get back again on the Sunday afternoon. The following weekend after taking just over three hours to get home I took it for granted I would easily get a lift back to camp: I’d never had a problem getting a lift anywhere in uniform during the day. However, a combination of circumstances: leaving a little later than usual and the unpredicted appearance of a storm; four hours on the road had me soaking wet and shivering, less than halfway back to Abingdon.
          With the storm bringing on an early nightfall there was a good chance I’d be walking all through the cold, wet, pitch black night. Just as I resigned myself to that inevitability a Landrover past me, slowed down and stopped about thirty yards ahead. Hardly able to contain my joy, with my backpack bouncing against my sopping wet camouflaged smock, I ran towards the vehicle.
         “Come on, young-fellow, jump in!” said the uniformed driver and as I settled inside I recognised the RAF officer’s epaulets of a Wing Commander.
          “Thank you for stopping, Sir.” I said gratefully.
          “Think nothing of it,” he answered as he pulled away, and then squinting at me through the darkness he asked in a deep, cultured voice, “Where are you going, and what the devil are you doing hitchhiking on this damn, dirty night anyway?”
          “I’m with the PCAU at RAF Abingdon, and I've been home to Coventry for the weekend, Sir.”
          “Abingdon eh?… I’m afraid I’m not going to be of much use to you then son. Once we reach the Banbury intersection, I’m heading in the opposite direction.”
          My newly acquired buoyancy deflated like a punctured balloon, but trying not to let my disappointment show, I said, “That’s fine, Sir. At least it will put me in a better position to get a lift to Abingdon.”
          “I don’t know about that, soldier? I think you’ll be damn lucky if anyone stops for you on a night like this!”
          “Then I guess I’ll be walking till morning, Sir… I have to make it back by the 0830hrs muster parade,” I said feeling even more despondent.
          For the next ten minutes or so the officer chatted away in a friendly manner, putting me at my ease, and then as we approached a major intersection he said, “Here’s where we part company, young man.” As we slowed down to stop the wind hammered the rain against the windscreen. “My god, would you look at that weather!” and then, to my surprise, turning towards me he said, “I can’t, in all conscience, put you out into that!”
          I heaved a sigh of relief as he took the Abingdon turn off, but said, “Oh, I couldn’t take you out of your way, Sir.”
          “Nonsense,” he said. “And anyway… I’m sure you’ll be grateful?”
          “Oh yes Sir… eternally grateful,” I said with conviction.
          “That’s the spirit,” he said turning to smile at me. “Now where shall we drop you off?” That's when, out of the blue, he reached over and squeezed my upper thigh. Instinctively I brushed his hand away, my heart jumped into my throat and began beating so hard I could hardly breathe, let alone speak.
          He just laughed and said, “Don’t get so excited… I said where shall we drop you off, not toss you off.”
          My heart continued to pound, and I gave a nervous laugh: ‘did I just dream that?’ but I knew I hadn’t. Memories of my childhood came flooding back, and along with them those old feelings of guilt: ‘did I somehow encourage this RAF officer to do what he just did?' All of these thoughts flitted through my head in an instant and then his hand was on my thigh again.
          This time when I tried to brush it away it didn’t move as he gripped my leg tightly and for a few seconds we struggled; while he kept talking to me in that cultured voice as he continued to drive through the storm. “Come on… you said you’d be eternally grateful… So show me some gratitude. I just want to play with your cock… and then I’ll take you all the way!” and he laughed before adding, "No pun intended."
          “Don’t!” I managed at last, while attempting to pry his hand from my leg. He was much stronger than he looked. The situation was bizarre: while driving through a storm in the dark, a high ranking RAF officer was making sexual advances towards me. Eventually, I managed to pull his hand from my thigh, but he was undeterred. “Come on soldier… get your cock out… and you can be back at your camp and tucked up in bed in an hour.”
          When I was a child I felt that no one would take my word against an adult, and now I felt that no one would take my word against an officer. This person thought that he could take advantage of me; taking me to a place I hadn’t been since I was a child. A fury was building inside of me. 'What should I do?... Tell him to stop the car, and then just get out and walk?... Or, just reach over and slam him in the jaw?... Or, play along with him and get him to pull off the main road, drag him out of the vehicle and kick him to death, and then leave his body to rot under a hedgerow?… Now, that was sounding more appealing by the second.'
          “Well?… What’s it to be?… I suck you off then drop you off… or I throw you out here and you walk all night through this dirty storm. He was still driving, and I was still squashing myself flat against the door saying nothing: I figured that every hundred yards we covered was a hundred yards less for me to walk in that storm, and I still hadn’t decided. “I’m going to take your silence as affirmative,” he said, and he suddenly turned off the main road into a small lane.
          “Stop the car!” I said, suddenly panic-stricken: a host of butterflies took flight in my stomach (not a familiar feeling these days) and I began to shake uncontrollably.
          “Oh, I’m going to…” he answered, smiling smugly while peering out into the stormy night, obviously looking for somewhere suitable, “Soon.”
         The fury rising from within almost overwhelmed me and it was with great effort that I resisted the impulse to attack this gloating, arrogant abuser right there and then. However, suddenly I felt very calm, the butterflies disappeared, the shaking stopped; I knew exactly what I was going to do. Without warning, he pulled abruptly left and off the road, stopping in front of a five-bar-gate. Before he had chance to switch the engine off I leapt from the vehicle and ran around to open the gate. Driving into the field, he pulled right and along the hedgerow ten yards or so before stopping the engine and switching the lights off.
          I experienced a cold, hard, detached feeling as I walked, unhurriedly, through the pelting rain. Opening the door I hoisted myself back into the passenger seat. “I’m awfully pleased you’re getting into the spirit of things… Now then… let's not waste any time,” he said, reaching over and unbuttoning the fly of my combat pants, and then leaning over, “That’s the ticket… my, my… that’s a lovely cock…”
          Memory Point: He doesn’t flinch as I take a handful of his hair with my right hand and grip his jaw with my left, and he doesn't know what hit him as I smash his face against the metal dashboard with such a force I suspect I’ve broken bones, and without pause I smash it against the dashboard a second time. Pushing the door open I jump from the vehicle, keeping hold of his hair I drag the hapless RAF officer with me. His exit is suddenly halted as his foot jams somewhere. His head still firmly in my grasp, throwing my weight backwards I remorselessly wrench him out. Dragging him four or five yards, shaking him as a dog would a rabbit, I hurl his head at the ground where he lies motionless… "Now I'm going to kick you to fucking death!" I scream at his prone, unconscious form.
          Some time later, as he slowly regained consciousness, I sat next to him on the grass while the storm still raged. "I had planned to kick you death,” I said quietly, calmly, and then after a moments, menacing silence, “And I might still be inclined to do just that… if you don’t co-operate. I want a lift to Abingdon and I don’t want you to speak, not a word. I never want to hear your voice again.” Just then a flash of lighting illuminated his battered, terrified features; he looked like a frightened old man. “If there’s any repercussions I’ll tell my side of the story to the Sunday papers. And… no matter how long it takes, I'll find you; and next time… I will kill you!" I could see that he believed every word.
          His nose was completely smashed and his front teeth were broken; his ankle was possibly broken and he might have to wear a neck-brace for a while, but eventually he would be alright; he'd live.
          "But if you do exactly as I say… I’ll never mention this to another living soul."
          I kept my word… until now. Two hours and a hot shower later, as I lay snuggled up in my bed I felt no remorse. The RAF officer was unfortunate enough to be the victim of a rage he had no idea existed, but I think he got his ‘just deserts’. 

                                                                            Chapter 15: TWO BIRDS IN THE HAND

 We’d been on light duties for about three weeks. Paddy was safe enough with a back injury: all the doctors were prepared to do was wait, and hope he improved. However, my shoulder was a different thing. On the Monday following my ‘accident’ the MO sent me to a nearby RAF hospital for x-rays. When I returned with a clear bill of health, as far as the x-rays were concerned, the MO concluded that it was soft tissue damage and ordered me to keep wearing a sling.
          Three weeks later, with no change in the symptoms, I was sent me back for further x-rays. I waited at the orderly room, at the entrance to the camp, for a driver heading in the direction of the hospital. The driver who picked me up was scheduled for several other destinations and dropping me off at the hospital he picked me up on his way back in the afternoon and, with yet another point of call, he dropped me off near the camp gates on his way past the base.
          Memory Point: There are three girls on the opposite side of the road. Around sixteen years old, they could be older but the school uniforms give them away. “Hey… sexy!” one of them calls, but looking straight ahead, ignoring her, I keep walking. “Hey!… Have you got a light?” she persists and I turn at last to find them all smiling, flirtatiously.
          Fixing them with a well practised ‘slow burn’ and sauntering towards them, I pull out my Ronson Varaflame and offer it to the nearest girl. Accepting it with a smile, and a flutter of her long, dark lashes, she looks quickly over her shoulder at her friends before turning her big, brown orbs on me again, on full beam.
          “Well… That’s a lovely lighter, but I seem to be out of cigarettes… I wonder…" and giving me another flutter of her lashes and the most engaging smile, "could you spare one?”
          Returning her smile, pulling out my cigarette packet, I hesitate, “Wait a minute… I don't want to get in trouble for corrupting minors.” “But, we’re not minors,” they protest as one.
          “We’re sixth formers," says the girl closest to me. "Sandy and Lucy are sixteen and I turned seventeen yesterday.”
          “In that case…” I offer my cigarette packet around, and to the birthday girl, “Happy birthday for yesterday… What’s your name?”
          “Ruth.”
          “Tom,” I offer. “I’m very pleased to meet you… Ruth.”

“Come on Mac! We could be missing the best of the pick… shake a leg,” said Paddy as I entered the billet.
          “You go on,” I replied and then, as he looked at me quizzically, “I just met a girl out side the gate on my way back from the hospital.”
          “I thought you looked like ‘the cat who stole the cream’. Is she a WRAF?”
          “No. She’s a schoolgirl.”
          “What?” said Paddy, giving me a strange look, and then punching me on the arm he said. “You dirty, old bastard!”
          Laughing and pulling away from another punch, I said, “No… no, it’s not like that; she’s seventeen, tall, with legs up to here!” I said, holding my hand at waist height.
           “Yeh… right!” said Paddy, and then, “Has she got a mate?”
          “Actually, she was with two others when I met her; they’re sixteen years old. She turned seventeen yesterday,” I added, smiling.
          “Excellent… Legal meat,” said Paddy making a great show of licking his lips.
          Later, when Paddy and I approached, they were lounging against a wall opposite the gates. “Hubba hubba!” said Paddy, giving me a quick glance. “Well done, Mac… Well done!” Out of school uniform, they were wearing jeans and the cutest little, figure hugging tops; and looking way past school age. “Which one of you lovely ladies is Ruth?” said Paddy, smiling, as we reached them. Smiling back, Ruth held out her hand and Paddy – pulling one of his typically charming tricks – took her hand and, deftly turning it palm up, kissed her wrist.
          Even though for the most part we were just sitting on a wall, talking, the night was a huge success. Lucy left around 9:00pm, and at 10:30 Paddy walked Sandy home and I walked Ruth to the end of her street.
          I was grateful for the darkness, hoping she wouldn't notice, as just the touch of her hand in mine prompted an uncontrollable erection. When we stopped at her street, she pressed herself hard against me, and clinging together we kissed passionately until suddenly, reaching down, she gave my bulge a gentle squeeze. Looking into my eyes, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she whispered huskily, “I’m looking forward to meeting your, anxious, mister big.” And then, abruptly, she was gone, running down the street before disappearing up a pathway.

“She didn’t?”
          “She did.” I insisted between mouthfuls of egg and toast.
          “You jammy bastard!” said Paddy, laughing. “Are you seeing her tonight?”
          “No… She has some kind of heavy, homework assignment. But… Friday night is going to be…” and pausing I closed my eyes, “Fucking awesome!”
          “Hey, None of that at breakfast!” he quipped, slapping the back of my head, before moving off quickly through the breakfast crowd.
          While on parade, just after breakfast, the Regimental Sergeant Major spoke directly to me for the first time since I joined the PCAU. “McKinnon?”
          “Yes, Sir!”
          “Report to the medical centre straight after parade!”
          “Yes, Sir!”
          The RSM was quite good, in that he never really bothered anyone. You could tell that he had a capacity for being an arsehole – that comes with RSM territory – but if everybody did as they should it was a quiet little station. What ever he wanted done was passed along the chain of command via Sergeant Hincle, and Sergeant Hincle, or Hinc, didn’t bother anyone as long as RSM McKay was happy.
          At the medical centre the duty sister informed me the latest x-rays seemed to indicate a hairline fracture. I’d have to go back for more x-rays. Another day of wandering around chatting up nurses and basically ‘skiving off’ out of the way suited me down to the ground.
          ‘Skiving’, an unofficial army term meaning: ‘to do nothing of any consequence,’ or ‘to get out of doing something’. During my stint in the army I had become quite a proficient skiver.
          Returning around 4:00pm, by the same method as the day before, I found another group of girls in school uniform just outside the gate, on the other side of the road. Some of them made kissy noises and one of them wolf whistled as I passed. Suppressing a smile, attempting to cover my embarrassment and appear nonchalant, I paused briefly and lit a cigarette.
          “Hey, soldier!” Turning to look across the road I found, of course, they were all looking straight back at me; smiling and winking. I turned on the ‘slow burn’ before giving them a little wave as I moved off. “Hey, soldier… Have you got a spare fag?” When I stopped and turned this time one of the girls had stepped onto the road and was heading towards me. There was time for a detailed appraisal as she approached.
          She didn’t have Ruth’s long, tapering legs; however, she was quite stunning in a different way. Long, strawberry-blonde hair and a way of rolling her hips that was anything but school-girlish.
          “Why, thank you kind sir,” she said, taking a cigarette from my packet; and after accepting a light from my Ronson she said, “You are so gallant, sir,” giving me a little mock curtsy.
          “Sir is not my favourite title,” I said quietly, still smiling. “Tom,” I offered, holding my hand out.
          “Patricia…” she said, putting her tiny hand in mine, “You can call me Pat.”
          “Well, Pat…” I said, after enjoying the touch of her petal, soft hand for a few seconds, “where do we go from here?”
          “I think you’ll have to see me tonight… That is, unless you have some one else to see?” and she smiled, still holding my hand, daring me to have someone else to see.
          “No…” I said and her smile faltered a little until I added, “I don’t have anyone to see, tonight.”
          “Well, then… it’s a date,” she said. “I’ll meet you here, at seven o-clock?” and it was only then did she let go of my hand. I watched as she rolled those beautiful hips back across to where her friends waited, abuzz with questions.

“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Paddy.
          “Would I lie to you?” Paddy looked into my smiling eyes and shook his head.
          “You jammy bastard!” he said slapping me on the shoulder.
          “Hey!…” I said, recoiling from the slap.
          “Fuck off, Mac! Don’t start believing your own publicity. You haven’t really hurt your shoulder,” and he laughed.
          “That’s just it, Paddy… I think I may have, and the x-rays are showing a hairline crack.”
          “Fuck me dead, Mac. When you pull a flim flam, you really cover all the bases,” and he laughed again, this time slapping me on my good shoulder. “So, what are her mates like?”

“I’d just about given up on you…" I said, blowing out a long stream of smoke. "We were going to finish these fags and then adjourn to the Club.” And then jumping down from the wall I said, “By the way… Pat… say hello to Pat.”
          Paddy and I had walked out of the gate at seven o’clock on the dot, and it was twenty minutes past by the time Pat appeared. “I’m really sorry I’m late,” she said. “Someone told my dad I was holding hands with a Para at the Camp gate… He hit the roof and wanted to know who you were.”
          Jumping down from the wall and flicking away his cigarette butt, Paddy said, “You don’t want to believe everything you hear about the Paras; everyone likes to paint us black, but we’re really the good guys,” and smiling, he held out his hand. Smiled back, she put her hand out to shake, but Paddy did his usual trick: turning her hand over he pressed his lips briefly against her wrist, and still holding her hand he said, “There you go, some one can report to your old man that you’ve held hands with two Paras at the camp gate, and one of them kissed you.”
          Patricia smiled warmly; Paddy wasn’t classically hansom, but he more than made up for it in charm, blarney. “Oh, it’s all right…” she said, “I always get my own way, in the end…” taking one of my hands between hers, she looked up at me, fixing me with her beautiful, green eyes. Trapped in her gaze, I believed that this blonde, green-eyed temptress could get anything from anyone. “It’s just that… you’d better be careful, in case he finds out who you are,” she finished with a smile.
          “You just worry about you,” I said. “I can look after myself.”
          “How big is your old man, anyway?” Paddy chirped up. “You make him sound like a giant.”
          “Oh, no… You misunderstand,” she said, briefly kissing my hand, and then looking from me to Paddy and back again. “My name is Patricia McKay… My father is RSM McKay.”

“Get rid of her, Mac!” said Paddy, out of the blue, as we walked back to our billet later.
          “Hang on, Paddy! She’s gorgeous… and anyway, I thought you liked her?”
          “It’s not a question of liking her. What’s not to like? She’s hot! Those tits… a great arse… and that hair, what colour is it anyway?”
          “Strawberry blonde.”
          “Yeh… Well… She’s also smart, and funny too, but Mac!… She’s the RSM’s daughter!” and then shaking his head he added, “You can’t be fucking the RSM’s little girl!?”
          “Come on Paddy. You know what they tell us back at Depot Para?… There’s no such thing as can’t.” and we both fell about laughing.
          We went on to joke about the possibilities, and probable ramifications of becoming enmeshed in the RSM’s family, but as we approached the billet Paddy put a hand on my shoulder, “Listen Mac… All joking aside, be careful!”
          “Don’t worry Paddy…” and reaching into my back pocket I pulled out my wallet. “I’m always careful.” I said throwing something to him.
          Chucking the packet of condoms back, he said, “You’d better hang on to them, mate… Although, you won’t need them after McKay cuts your balls off." We laughed some more but I must admit he was starting to get to me.
          “You’re still coming to Oxford on Saturday, aren’t you?” and before he could answer I added. “That friend she’s lining you up with is one cute little dolly bird.”
          “Well…” he stalled, sounding unsure, and then giving a dirty little laugh. “I suppose… a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” and we were laughing again.
          Friday night came around and, literally, bursting with anticipation I went to meet Ruth. We found a quiet little pub; she didn’t know that I was still only seventeen, but she had to be careful in her own hometown: any number of people could identify her as being under age. After a few drinks, and a couple of hours chatting and getting to know each other, she told me that there was no one at home and asked if I'd like to go back with her, for a coffee?
          “Shhhh!” she said, holding a finger to her lips, as she unlocked the door and pushed it gently open.
          “I thought you said that there was no one home?” I whispered, following her through the door.
          “There isn’t, but our next door neighbour is one of my dad’s Staff Sergeants,” she whispered back, as she closed the door behind us.
          “Oh, I see… What!?”
          “The guy next door is-”
          “Who is your dad?”
          “He’s in charge of the PJI’s, sort of like your RSM,” and while I was still standing open mouthed, she kissed me passionately, gyrating herself against me. In a matter of seconds we progressed through a couple of stages of heavy petting, and I spiraled quickly towards out of control mode.
          Feebly pushing her away, I gasped, “Where are your parents?”
          “Don’t worry about them,” she said, and then pulling me hard against her, re-attaching her mouth to mine, she stuck her tongue so far down my throat I almost gagged.
          Struggling, I managed to disengage again, holding her at arms length I said, “Oh… god… I feel like pushing you back on the floor!… Right here!… Right now!”
          “Do it!” she said, pulling me down in the hallway. “Fuck me!... Now!”

“I’m so, sorry.” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “I’m so… so sorry.” “It’s all right… Stop saying sorry, Tom. It could happen to anyone.”
          As our lustful passions overtook us, we’d done a reasonable job of undressing each other, but while struggling with the condom it burst. Taking the second condom, Ruth tried to put it on for me but her attentions and the anticipation became too much: while she was trying to fit it I ejaculated all over both of us.
          “But, it’s never happened to me before!” I said, feeling desperately unhappy.
          “Look…” said Ruth, soothingly, “You’ll have to leave now so that I can get cleaned up before my dad comes in. But we’ll pick it up again tomorrow night… OK?”
          “OK.” I agreed, feeling like the biggest looser. “Oh, no!” I said, suddenly remembering Saturday’s date with Patricia.
          “What’s wrong?”
          “Ah… I’ve… Ah…” My mind was spinning, as I struggled to think. “I’ve just remembered that I promised to… Oh, I guess I can get out of it,” and I kissed her passionately, stalling for time. Kissing me back for a couple of seconds, she broke off.
          “What had you forgotten?… What can you get out of?”
          “Oh… It’s just that I promised to go into Oxford tomorrow with Paddy… But, I can get out of it…”
          “No, don’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair…” and she kissed me again. Beginning to come to the boil once more, she pushed me away. “Go… go now!... Before my dad comes and catches us.” Outside, under the porch light, she looked down at herself. “Oh fuck… look at me. You get out of here, I’ve got to go and clean up,” then looking down at me she added, “And the fewer people see the state of you, before you get cleaned up, the better!” I started to back away. “By the way… my mum doesn’t live with us anymore, and my dad has dinner and a few drinks at the mess every night before he comes home.”
          “Oh… I see,” I said and then turning I began to jog up the path.
          “Tom!” Turning back I could see her silhouetted in the doorway. “If it’s not to late when you get back from Oxford tomorrow… come over?”
          “OK,” I said, before sprinted out of the gate and back towards camp. ‘I’m a bastard! I’m a dirty, rotten bastard.’ I thought to myself as I ran. ‘I’m going to have to stop this… I really am.’

“OK… spill it… give me all the dirt on last night?” said Paddy, as we walked towards the gate to meet Pat and her friend. Glancing at him, I then looked straight ahead – the memory of the previous night’s debacle flooding into my mind – and laughed.
          “I’m not the kiss and tell type… you know that.”
          “Bullshit, Mac!… I don’t want to know who sucked what? But, was it a good night?… Did you reach first base?”
          “You could say that,” I said, thinking ‘Sprinted past it, more like, missing it all together!’ and then before he could ask any more questions, "There’s the girls.”
          We spent an idyllic day in and around Oxford, playing among the archaic buildings and in the sunshine along the riverbank. The lovely Kathy, Patricia’s friend, was a bit quiet, but Paddy more than made up for that with his rapier like Irish wit and sense of fun and she laughed for most of the day. My golden-haired beauty enchanted me: she was witty and intelligent, and kept me amused, entertained and totally turned on, all day long.
          Already two hours late for dinner, Kathy was the first to exit the bus as we came into Abingdon at 8:30pm, and Paddy alighted at the camp gate, heading straight for the 101 Club. “I’ll see you at the bar in about half an hour,” I called after him.
          Leaning against the side-wall of Pat's house we kissed passionately: lips molded, tongues entwined, groin against groin, bodies moving in a parody of lovemaking. She paused in her abandon as I slid my hand slowly, caressing from her knee, up the inside of her thigh. Reading the signs correctly, I transferred my attention to the outside of her dress: her tension abated and she seemed once more to be lost in abandon.
          Memory Point: “I have to go in now,” she says, breathlessly, pushing me away. “But I could sneak out later for a little while, maybe?”
          “Don’t you dare go sneaking out…” I'm also breathing hard, trying to adjust myself surreptitiously in the darkness. “I don’t want your old man coming after us with a gun,” I say with a little laugh, but I'm actually quite serious. I can just imagine RSM McKay sneaking around a hedgerow, all camouflaged up, gripping an Sub machine gun, murderous intent on his face.
          Laughing and pulling me closer she kisses me again. "I’ll see you on Monday night outside the gate?” Walking towards camp I became increasingly aware of the pain in my groin. Turned on for most of the day, my thoughts drifted towards Ruth and her last words: “If it’s not too late when you get back from Oxford… come over?”
          “Hello, big boy,” she says, smiling as she opens the door and taking my hand she pulls me inside. “We’ve only got about half an hour before my dad's due back… so we’d better hurry,” she says pulling my Jacket off. “Oh my goodness! I see you’ve been anticipating this as much as me.” Within seconds she's pulled my jeans down and is on her knees in front of me.
          “Oh, no! You’d better not do that!" I say pulling away, "Or I’m going to…”
          “Oh, no! Don’t do that!…” and slipping off her own jeans and panties she lies back on the carpet. I fumble with a condom and, mercifully, managed to get it on at the first attempt. Kneeling between those beautiful, unbelievably long legs at last I feel myself being engulfed by her hot velvet depths as she strains against me, and then I stop; afraid to move. That, it turns out, is the worst thing I can do.
          “What’s wrong?!” she breaths in my ear, clinging to me.
          “Oh no!” I gasp, trying for all I'm worth to think of something, anything except where I am and what I'm doing: ‘Dirty socks… Smelly boxing gloves… Lieutenant Farra-Smythe’s face… Jumping out of an aeroplane…’ “Oh!… Oh… no!” I gasp again, trying desperately to ignore the convulsion threatening to overcome me.
          “Oh, no. Don’t!” Ruth whispers, realising what's happening.

Going straight to the 101 Club, I got blind drunk, which wasn’t very adult. Then again, I wasn’t feeling all that adult. I didn’t tell Paddy about my visit to Ruth’s that night; when I arrived in a foul mood he just assumed I was pissed off with Patricia for some reason. I didn’t see Ruth again; I couldn’t face her. I guess she gave up on me too because she never sought me out. I saw Patricia a couple of times during the following week and each time it was the same thing: down the side of her house, both hot for each other, frustrated as hell. I tried to get her to go somewhere else, but the house was her safety net. Each night ended the same way with me hitting the shower for relief.
          Friday started the same as most other Fridays. Paddy and I received our pay on parade; actually, I got the distinct impression that RSM McKay was paying me just a little too much attention. We were in the 101 Club within half-an-hour of getting paid. As per our usual Friday pattern, we bought food and a beer, and put some spare change into the slot machine while eating our dinner. But unlike our usual Friday, we started winning.
          Firstly getting drops of five, ten, and fifteen shillings; and then, as our kitty began to mount we pushed our plate’s aside, and the next thing we dropped the reserve jackpot of five pounds. Scooping our winnings out of the collection tray we decided to put twenty more coins through the machine before splitting the remainder of the pot, eight pounds: the equivalent of an extra week’s wages between us. At first, with the way we'd been winning we expected a few more wins, but as we got down to the last couple of coins it was just a matter of getting the twenty over with so that we could start celebrating.
         Memory Point: Slipping sixpence into the bandit and pulling the lever. “My last,” I say. The reels spin their usual whirring dance and then Clunk… Clunk… Clunk… Clunk: nothing. I'm ready to go to the bar and start celebrating. Paddy spits on his last coin, puts it into the slot and pulls the handle. The reels spin around for a few seconds and then one by one, they clunk into place, BAR, BAR, BAR and as the last BAR falls into place, “Yehaaa!..”
          “You… Fucking… Beauty!” says Paddy quietly, with emphasis, and then throwing our arms around each-other we laugh hysterically, as four hundred coins cough into the collection tray.
          Two hours later, the dance in full swing, Paddy and I were well oiled; flitting from one group of girls to another, like bee’s from flower to flower; we were having a ball.
          We were dancing with a couple of nurses when someone tapped me on the shoulder. Turning – while still trying to focus on the face floating in front of me – suddenly my ear exploded and then I was on my knees. When I could focus again I recognised Patricia's beautiful hips winding their way through the crowd and out of my life… forever.
          “Come on Mac, get up!” said Paddy, hauling me off the floor. “You look ridicules.” Rubbing my ear I looked around; the nurses were in the process of walking away. “Hold on ladies… Don’t worry about her..." Paddy called after them, "They split up last week and she just wanted to get the last word in.”
          “She did?” I said, still rubbing my ear, “What did she say?”
          The girls laughed and, slapping me across the back, Paddy said, “You’re a card Mac… let’s go and get these lovely ladies a drink,” and he guided us towards the bar. The rest of the evening became a bit of a blur and Paddy called a cab as the Club was finishing.
          We arrived at the nurse's quarters, about six miles along a country lane, and expected to accompany them to their bed; however, discovering that the matron from hell was on duty we adjourned to a garden shed. Entering the shed in the pitch-black, it was fairly chaotic as we stumbled over assorted garden implements. Attempting to find a cosy spot, far enough away from each other to indulge in a bit of fraternisation, Paddy and his partner shut themselves in an empty cupboard.
          Leaning against the wall, my partner and I began, what can generally be called, a heavy petting session. We were heading towards mutual gratification when, suddenly, without warning she gasped and jerked a couple of times, squeezing me so hard I yelled out in pain. She'd climaxed; all of a sudden she wanted out of there.
          “Come on Betty. We’d better get in before old iron britches realizes we’re not in bed,” and with that, she rushed out of the shed without even looking back. I was still struggling, attempting to zip up my jeans, as the cupboard door burst open and Betty stumbled past me in the dark and shot out through the door.
          Unable to find a phone, stranded in the middle of nowhere, we had to walk back to camp. “Oh, god! I can hardly walk!” I whined.
          “It’s your own damn fault,” snapped Paddy, rubbing his own genitals, gently. “You should know better than to get her off first.” It took three hours to get back to a hot shower and relief.

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