Читать книгу Pretty Boy - If I Come After You Beware 'Cos Hell's Coming With Me - Roy Shaw - Страница 12

‘I felt the adrenalin rush. It flared up inside me, starting from my feet, and surged throughout my body making me feel ten times stronger. There was a banging in my head this was no headache, it was an anger so raw, so uncontrollable, it erupted in violence …’

IN THE LATE SUMMER OF 1954, my letter of conscription into the army fell through the letterbox. I was called up to fight for Queen and Country. Some men dreaded National Service, but I had actually been looking forward to joining the Army. It couldn’t have been better for me because I was already training hard for my boxing and I knew the training in the Army would be even harder, but would be something I’d enjoy.

I arrived at the Army Medical Centre full of confidence. I didn’t think there would be any problem passing the medical. I was young and fit. I stood in line with the other conscripts, everyone in our birthday suits. Many were trying to get out of being called up by claiming they had flat feet. One even told me he was going to cut off his trigger finger – anything to get out of going. I was the complete opposite; I wasn’t looking for any excuses, I wanted to go even to the point of hiding my colour blindness.

The medical officer tapped my chest, I stuck my tongue out when I was told to stick my tongue out and coughed when I was told to cough. I passed the medical with flying colours and was officially 23040113 Private Royston Henry Shaw.

I thought army life was going to be a breeze, just running about all day with a rucksack on my back or in a gymnasium doing press-ups, sit-ups or swinging from ropes. Exercising wasn’t a problem, in fact it was perfect for me, but what I didn’t reckon on, or could have prepared myself for, was the discipline of being ordered when to sleep, when to eat, when to get up, when to go to bed and even when to have a crap.

The first six weeks in the training camp was a nightmare. I tried hard to tolerate being ordered about because I was learning to drive a three-ton supply lorry, which I enjoyed, but I was finding it increasingly difficult to take the orders that were being barked at me constantly.

The Sergeant was on my back all the time. He was a nasty bully-boy and seemed to be picking on me non-stop. Looking back on it now, he probably didn’t, but because of the bullying I’d suffered at school, I felt singled out. I realise now bullies come in all forms throughout life, often in the playground and particularly in the Army, and that Sergeant was the biggest bully I had ever encountered. He would come up close to my ear and bellow at the top of his voice, ‘Left, right … left, right …’

He did it to all the men. They didn’t seem to mind, but I couldn’t or wouldn’t stand for it. The restrictions, the routine, the very detailed planning of every minute of my day drove me mad. Six weeks of hell and I was just about ready to explode.

It was the crack of dawn. I awoke to a dim morning of overcast skies, and the barracks felt damp. It was a struggle to get out of bed. I shivered and pulled my itchy grey army blanket around me. I longed for five more minutes in bed, just five more minutes in the warm, but it wasn’t to be. The Sergeant marched into the barracks with his big shiny boots, squeaking on the highly-polished floor. All the spit and polish in the world would never have got my boots to shine like the Sergeant’s. He was like a robot. I don’t think that man ever slept, or ate or took a shit. At the top of his voice he shouted, ‘STAND BY YOUR BEDS.’

I was the last one out of my bunk. Quickly, I smoothed the covers flat and plumped my pillow, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed. The Sergeant had clocked me out of the corner of his eye. He tapped his baton on the side of his leg as he did his early morning inspection. One by one he walked in front of us. When he got to me he stopped, pushed his baton under my pillow and flicked it on the ground. I was annoyed and held my breath. He opened my locker and emptied its entire contents on the floor. My belongings rolled under the bed. I felt my heart start to pound. Fucking liberty, I thought, but managed to stay calm. On the outside I was cool, but inside I was a seething volcano ready to erupt at any moment. I just wanted the Sergeant to go away and leave me alone. Instead, he stood in front of me, the tip of his nose touching mine, his eyes gazed unblinkingly. He pointed to the floor at my scattered belongings.

‘Pick them up,’ he hissed.

That was it, he’d pushed his luck too far. I felt the adrenalin rush. It flared up inside me, starting from my feet, and surged throughout my body making me feel ten times stronger. There was a banging in my head but this was no headache, it was an anger so raw, so uncontrollable, it erupted in violence. I knew what was coming, but the Sergeant didn’t until he hit the ground. The other soldiers were stunned. One asked, ‘Fuck me, Roy, where did you learn to punch like that?’

I laughed. ‘It’s either learn to punch or eat shit and I don’t like to eat shit.’

Before I knew it, I was handcuffed and escorted by two Regimental Policemen to Colchester Army Prison. I had been sentenced to nine months in the Glass House.

Colchester was brutal. From the minute I stepped foot in the reception, I was confronted by tough, unrelenting, abusive Staff Sergents. They were absolute bastards. The first thing that struck me was their appearance. Everything about them was immaculate, from their peak caps shielding their vindinctive eyes to the shiny buckles on their belts. Everything at Colchester was done at the double, everything had to be quick, quick, quick.

I was marched into the reception at the double, ‘Left, right … left, right.’ I had no time to think. A Sergeant barked at me, ‘From now on you call me Staff, not Sir.’

Two more bastards stood either side of me bellowing in my ear in stereo, ‘You got that, Shaw? … Staff, not Sir. You got that?’

How dare they talk to me like that? I wasn’t a fucking kid.

In that split second all my pent-up fury at the Army exploded out of me. There was no way some army slag was going to take liberties with me, or humiliate me in public.

‘YEAH,’ I shouted. ‘I GOT IT. Now you get this.’ I whacked the closest Staff Sergeant and leaned down and bellowed in his face, ‘Now you call me Mister Shaw. You got that?’

The remaining Sergeants jumped on me and manhandled me across a courtyard to what was known as the ‘singles’. It was a brick building, 200 yards away from the rest of the camp and away from the other soldiers. In the singles you were completely alone at the mercy of the Staff Sergeants. They dragged me into a cell and set about me one by one. It was in my nature to fight back and I gave them a run for their money, but there were too many of them. After the beating, I was left in the freezing brick out-house all night. I huddled in the corner trying to keep warm. My body ached from the bashing I’d received. The wind howled through the gaps under the door and through the feeding hole in the wall. It was a long night.

At first light, the cell door was flung open.

‘Get up, Shaw, on the double.’

I was ordered to strip naked and was marched into a small yard. Four officers were waiting. One of them turned a heavy-duty hosepipe on me. The freezing water stung my body, the force knocking me backwards. I tried to shield myself from the drenching. I could barely catch my breath. Eventually, they turned the hose off and I slumped to the ground, gasping for air.

The Staff Sergeants laughed. I was bruised, battered and drenched but still I wouldn’t give in. I rushed at the dirty bastard holding the hose and we fell to the ground. I was butt-naked, but we kicked and gouged each other in a pool of icy cold water. Again, I was overpowered and locked back in the cell. I yelled at them, ‘I’LL NEVER GIVE IN. NEVER.’

It was a battle of wills. They must have sensed my determination because after seven days of being drenched and fighting tooth and nail, I was allowed back with the mainstream prisoners.

Back in the main prison I was put into a unit with 14 other prisoners, where all of us were half-starved. Our food was weighed out and rationed, and each potato, each sausage was just enough to keep us alive.

After our pittance of a meal, we were allowed to sit in the old Nissan hut for a chat and a smoke, with each man being given one cigarette. Before we were allowed to leave, the cigarette butts were collected and counted. It was just another futile rule to break us. It didn’t matter a fuck to me – I didn’t smoke. While in the Nissan hut, I got chatting to another prisoner who told me about the boxing matches that were held against each unit. Boxing – that was just the job, just what I needed, somewhere to channel my aggression. It had been building up because of the consistent routine, routine and then more routine, and also because of the brutality we all suffered from the authorities. At first, I fought back out of principle but the Staff Sergeants were ruthless bastards. Slowly, that principle turned into survival.

The boxing matches were held monthly between each unit. The challenge was open to anyone who thought they were good enough to compete. And that was everybody because everyone in Colchester had been kicked out of their regiment and were there for some misdemeanour or other. The men were tough nuts from all over the country who wouldn’t bow to authority, and would have been in prison if they hadn’t been in the Army. They all thought they were tough, but to me they were pussy cats.

My first opponent was Big Jock, a Glaswegian with natural strength and ruggedness. All the men had been talking about him and his tremendous one-punch hitting power, especially with his right fist. I was quietly confident as I climbed into the ring. I wasn’t frightened of anyone, least of all a ‘sweaty sock’ from north of the border. In the first round I floored him with a right hook, and caught my elbow in his nose splitting it as cleanly as if I had hit him with a hatchet.

My next fight was with a big heavily tattooed Liverpudlian from Unit C. He had fought everyone and had knocked them all out. He swaggered into the ring and I looked at his hairy shoulders as he blew the snot from his nose on to the canvas. I thought to myself that Liverpudlians had no class. The bell rang. He rushed at me, I clipped him with a left hook and followed with a right. He swayed back and forth looking like a cartoon character, then over he went.

Once the Liverpudlian hit the canvas, I earned instant respect not only from the men but particularly from the Staff Sergeant who was organising the boxing. He took a shine to me and wanted to look after his protégé. I became his star.

I was kept at Colchester Army Prison for nine months. Boxing kept me out of trouble, and it offered me a way of releasing my aggression and doing the thing I loved best – fighting. At the end of my sentence, I was posted to Hurford in Germany.

We travelled to Germany on a cargo ship. The crossing was rough and I was seasick, most of the men were. It was the first time I’d been abroad and it had to be Germany. The war had only been over for nine years and there was still an underlying resentment. The Germans didn’t like us and the feeling was mutual. It was too soon to forgive and forget the atrocities of the war, the memories of lost loved ones were still prominent in our minds and wounds hadn’t had time to heal.

In Germany, my first military manoeuvre was to be a raid by Dutch soldiers. It was only an exercise, not a real raid. I was part of a convoy of lorries, but my vehicle was pulled out because it was the Signals truck. I was ordered to park a fair distance from the rest and stay on look-out duty. I parked the lorry in a secluded part of the woods. I was feeling knackered so I lay down on the long bench seat and fell fast asleep.

Suddenly, I was woken by a terrific noise. It was like New Year’s Eve and Guy Fawkes night all rolled into one. I fell out of my lorry still half asleep and scared to death. The sound of bangers and fire-crackers going off was all around me, and in my dazed state I thought, Fuck me, it’s for real – I’m being attacked.

I dived into a ditch flat on my belly and edged my way through the mud on my elbows, just how the Army had taught me. My only thought was to get back to my regiment. The noise of bombs exploding and guns firing was deafening, it was complete mayhem everywhere. I crawled through a hedgerow and, to my horror, came face to face with the enemy – six Dutch soldiers. Instinctively I pulled out my rifle and smashed one in the face with the butt of my gun. He went down. Then I swung round and took out a second. A third jumped me from behind. I flung him over my shoulder on to the ground and sank the butt of the rifle into his chest. He gave out a gasp. Another Dutch soldier put his hands up in defeat and walked backwards shouting, ‘NO … NO.’ But I’d lost all sense of reality. I thought they were real soldiers and this was a real war, and I was fighting it alone.

The Dutchman must have seen the dangerous gleam in my eyes and the flash of my gun. He turned on his heels and fled, and I fired my rifle into the darkness indiscriminately! My only thought then was to get back to my regiment. I bolted back, eager to report the incident. I was breathless as I rushed into camp.

‘In the woods …’ I gasped, ‘soldiers … I, er … I, er …’

Halfway through my sentence, four Dutch soldiers limped into the camp, two with broken noses, and one doubled up clutching his chest unable to breath properly. My unit was none too pleased, and neither was the CO. I was confined to barracks pending a court martial.

Being on open arrest, unable to leave the barracks, soon pissed me off. All the other men were going out one evening to a local German dance hall and casino called The Gorilla Club. It had been arranged for weeks, and everybody had been looking forward to cutting loose for the night. I sat on my bunk and watched them all getting ready. I listened to them talking about how drunk they were going to get and how many German birds they were going to pull. I was gutted, everyone was going except me. I decided I couldn’t and wouldn’t be left out. I was going and to hell with the consequences.

I made arrangements with my old mate Jimmy Baggott. Jimmy was a tall, blue-eyed blond and extremely good looking – in fact, he looked more German than a German. We arranged to meet later at the dance hall. I waited until all the men had gone and I had the barracks to myself apart from the guards. I waited patiently until it got dark, then managed to slip out through the window in the latrines and made my way to the dance hall. Jimmy was waiting, he was already half-pissed. We leant on the bar, ordered a round of beers, started drinking and scanned the room for birds. It was good to feel normal again, if only for a while.

We were having a whale of a time, laughing and joking, when two German girls at a nearby table gave us the eye. One was a beautiful buxom blonde, the other was enormous and looked like she could pack a punch. We sent them over a drink. Jimmy winked and said, ‘Fuck me, Roy, we’re in here, but I don’t fancy yours much.’

Jimmy walked over and asked the blonde to dance. In broken English, she mumbled something about a list. He couldn’t understand what she meant and told her to forget all about the list and to dance with him. He took her hand and pulled her towards the dance floor. She yanked her arm back and started shouting. Jimmy looked back at me and shrugged his shoulders. The two girls jumped up from the table, the big one rolling up her sleeves ready for a punch-up. I started to laugh. Sensing trouble, the doormen from the Casino came over; they were the biggest doormen I have ever seen. They tried to calm the situation by explaining we had to put our name on a list for a dance with the girls and to wait our turn. Jimmy told the doormen to fuck off. I didn’t want any trouble – I shouldn’t have been there in the first place, and trouble was the last thing I needed. I told Jimmy to leave it out, but he was having none of it. He held up a bottle and hissed, ‘Do you want it, you kraut bastard?’

I closed my eyes, flinched, and thought, that’s torn it. The big doorman drew his lips back in a half smile that resembled a snarl. I knew then it was going to go off. I whispered to Jimmy out of the corner of my mouth, ‘I’ll take the biggest one.’

The doorman stepped forward, resembling a giant oak tree as he stood in front of me. I looked him up and down, from his snarl to his clenched fists. His arms were so bowed he looked like he was holding two rolled-up carpets under them.

I thought, Oh fuck, how the hell am I going to knock him over? He was a gorilla in every sense of the word, particularly as he worked at The Gorilla Club. I weighed up the situation, and knew if I just threw a punch it would lose power by the time it hit him because of his height. I’d have to throw my whole weight behind it. I clenched my fist, drew back and twisted from my waist. I hit him with a left hook followed by a right uppercut. He wobbled, then wobbled again, and over he went like a big ol’ tree.

Jimmy and I looked at each other.

‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

We started to run before the doorman got up. The crowded dance floor parted like the Red Sea to let us through. As we reached the double doors to the hall, Jim pushed one door and ran through. I pushed the other but my side was locked and I went through the stained-glass window and cut my hand badly. We ran around the narrow streets trying to get away from the area until we found a quiet, seedy bar on the outskirts of town. We went in and sat in the corner, trying to look inconspicuous. Twenty minutes later, the police arrived.

‘Any Englishmen must make themselves known.’

The landlord pointed to us. I tried to hide my cut hand under the table to avoid drawing attention to us, but the policeman noticed it.

‘Vot have you done to your hand?’ he asked.

I told him I was a mechanic and had cut my hand at work. He didn’t believe me and ordered us outside. As we walked towards the door, I whispered to Jimmy, ‘When we get outside, have it away on your toes.’

As we went through the doors, we started to run as fast as we could, but found it difficult because we had been drinking too much. It felt like holding a barrel of beer, only it was in my belly. We were puffing and panting, with the police hot on our tails.

‘Stop, or I’ll shoot, English bastards.’

Jimmy and I kept on going, not daring to look round. A bullet whizzed past our heads. It only made us run faster. Jimmy ran so fast I thought he was hanging on to the bullet. He ran one way, I ran the other, and I never saw Jimmy’s arse again for dust. I continued up a hill, but I was exhausted. The German police meant business and shouted, ‘STOP, OR I’LL SHOOT.’

I thought, fucking cheek, we won the war. What am I running for? I put my hands up in the air signalling defeat. The police surrounded me, pointing their guns at my head saying, ‘You come with us.’

I didn’t argue with them. I wasn’t daft and, besides, I was knackered. They took me to the local police station and I was nicked. I was taken back to the barracks and put under close arrest. Yet another court martial.

The next morning, I was marched by two Regimental Policemen in to see the Commanding Officer.

‘Left, right … left, right. Stop. Face your Commanding Officer.’

The CO didn’t give me a chance to say a word.

‘Shaw,’ he said, ‘you’re the scum of the earth.’

Scum of the earth! Who the fuck did he think he was talking to? What a liberty. I didn’t say a word. I jumped over the table and head-butted him. The Regimental Policemen grabbed me. They were tough bastards but I put up a good fight. There was blood and teeth everywhere. Obviously, I was overpowered and slung into a cell. Later, one of the RPs came back to see me. I thought we were going to have a row, but instead he took time out and explained that he recognised himself in me, that he also used to be anti-authority, and said I wasn’t doing myself any favours. If I continued, he said, I’d be going away for a long time. He made it clear the only way I had any chance of getting out of three court martials was to see the doctor and tell him I was hearing voices.

‘Hearing voices!’ I laughed. ‘Are you sure?’

The next morning, I was in the doctor’s office. He asked me if I had anything to say. I shook my head.

On the way out, the RP asked me if I’d told the doctor about the voices. I told him I hadn’t. He went back into the office and returned a few minutes later with the doctor. It had given me enough time to think about it.

‘Tell the doctor what you told me, Roy, about the voices. You know … the ones in your head.’

On the spur of the moment I had to make up a story, something I would remember. I told him that I heard voices, one a woman called Jean and the other one called John. John would tell me to hurt people and Jean would tell me not to. I explained that I felt I was torn between good and evil.

‘Ahh,’ the German doctor said, ‘you crazy.’

The RP stood behind the doctor, stuck his thumb in the air and winked. I didn’t know what he was looking so pleased about. I was taken directly to a German mental asylum. My feet didn’t touch the ground. I was taken to the nut house so quickly it made my head spin.

Nobody spoke as I was marched into the asylum. The RPs handed me over to the psychiatrist who was sitting behind a large desk with a strange little smile on his face. I spat my gum on to the floor and looked around at the high ceilings and barred windows. I wasn’t bothered, I thought I could bluff my way through; being there was just a means to an end.

A doctor and two male nurses led me down a long corridor, on each side of which were heavy steel doors that were bolted. I was taken into a ward with rows of beds on each side, each one containing a patient with a vacant look in their eyes. I was shown to a bed at the end of the ward and told to get undressed.

Over the next few days, I was seen by an endless stream of doctors and nurses. No one spoke proper English, so I could barely understand what they were saying. I just nodded and agreed and made the right noises at the right times, or so I thought.

After much prodding and poking it was decided that the best way to treat me was with electrical stimulation to the brain.

‘What the fuck is electrical-what’s-its-name to the brain?’ I asked.

The nurses tutted, sighed and dismissed the question with a wave of the hand.

The next morning, I was taken to a ward containing seven men lying on either side of the room. All were tucked up in bed, crisp white sheets pulled tightly across their shoulders, their heads being the only thing exposed. I sat on my bed looking at these poor souls, they were like the living dead. Four male nurses motioned to me to go with them. I went voluntarily. A doctor patted a leather table for me to lie on. Everyone was chatting and didn’t seem to care about me; it was all in a day’s work to them. I looked around the room at the medical equipment, the big dials and volt meters. Lying next to the leather table was an instrument that looked like a stethoscope.

Anxiously, I climbed onto the table. The doctor pulled me backwards and four men, two either side, held my legs. I started to get a bit nervous and asked them what they were doing. They smiled like smiling vipers. Two more nurses held my arms, then another pushed a large brown rubber object into my mouth which made me gag.

I couldn’t move and started to panic. My heart was pounding. Someone wet my temples. Suddenly I felt a searing pain in my head. It felt as though my brain was frying. My body tightened. Then nothing …

I woke up in a white room with a crisp white sheet tight across my shoulders. At first, I was puzzled. I didn’t know where I was. I looked at the strangers lying in the beds either side of me. I felt strange. Peaceful. Calm. I had never felt like that before. It was then I realised I had become one of those poor souls with the vacant look in their eyes.

Slowly, my memory started flooding back. That room. The equipment. Those dials. A nurse told me I had been given ECT (electroconvulsive therapy) and that I was going to have eight sessions of it.

A few days later, a nurse came back to take me for the second ECT, and this time I was a bit more wary. When I walked into the treatment room there were more male nurses than before. I discovered later that when I’d had my first ECT I convulsed so badly and lashed out so much that I hurt a few of the male nurses who’d been holding me down. This time they were taking no chances. There were four nurses holding my legs on each side and four holding my arms. Just in case.

After my eight treatments of ECT, the German doctor came to see me and explained that my brain cells had been muddled up – effectively, the electric shock treatment had exploded them. When the cells had settled back down, they were supposed to heal in basically the right place. He said that ECT was vital for my recovery. I thought what a load of bollocks it all was, and that the imaginary Jean and John had a lot to answer for.

I stayed at the German asylum for six weeks, after which I was shipped back to England to an army institution called Netley in Southampton. I remained at Netley until I was given a dishonourable discharge for being mad. That was the first time I came face to face with insanity. But it certainly wasn’t to be my last.