Japan Days

I worked for Norprint International (a Label Co. based in Boston, Lincs.) for nigh on 27 years, and for most of that time I had a distinct hankering to join the Export Department. On various visits to the factory I’d accost the Managing Director Doug Smith, informing him of my developing language skills, and suggesting that I would be an asset to our international endeavours. “The time’s not right Patrick” he’d say “ But keep it up”.

I had a phone call out of the blue some years later – “ Hello, It’s Doug Smith here, I think the time is right”. As things had developed, Doug left Norprint some time before I had ‘accepted’ voluntary redundancy, and in the meantime became Managing Director of Ko-Pack Europe, a Japanese Company producing Label Printing Presses. One of Doug’s main attributes as a businessman was his genuine interest in the people he worked with, affording him the unique ability to tune into their psyche, sometimes placing square pegs successfully in round holes, and as in my case, keeping people who were successful where they belonged. Until eventually his resourceful memory for people, events, and places would kick in “When the time was right”.

The six months (eventually 18) remit was as a Consultant Product Development manager for a revolutionary new Printing Press, soon to be launched in Europe. The machine was to be called ‘Emanon’. Apparently the Japanese Directors, asked to propose a name, drew a blank, going around the table, each in turn came up with “No name”. Mr. Kobayashi, with his usual panache, said, “So it shall be – No name, but we’ll spell it backwards – Emanon”. So, it was thus that a life rewarding opportunity presented itself to work, discover, and play for some time in Japan.



Jun Kobayashi.

The first thing that would strike you upon being introduced to Jun Kobayashi (JK) was his million dollar smile. Well, perhaps not quite a million, but his array of gold teeth certainly gives an indication of the multi millionaire behind them. His father had owned a successful ticket-making factory in Tokyo before the war, and following the demise of both his father and country supported his mother in resurrecting the company in tune with the renaissance of the nation. Educated in Japan, England, and France, his cultural and language skills stood him in good stead to develop the business, and that he did on a massive scale. With an inherent philosophy of inspiration, presentation, and innovation, he now commanded a vast business empire.

Such eminence of course generally comes with a certain degree of eccentricity, and in this area also JK didn’t find himself wanting. He owned five Jaguar cars (all green) each parked at various centres of activity, Tokyo, Yamagata, Peterborough, Vermont USA, and Singapore. However, he never possessed a driving licence of any kind. Copious consumption of malt whisky, Guinness, and Chris Barber, afforded JK an erratic style of life in which he never singed a credit card slip (anybody handy would do it), travelled across the globe without a stitch of luggage, and bought anything on impulse (antiques, electronic equipment, large jars of organic Viagra even) mostly given away immediately as gifts. On one occasion, a group of us had just arrived in Tokyo on the Bullet Train from Yamagata, and followed JK to a large restaurant, which was absolutely packed. People were squashed up and an extra table was immediately laid for this eminent customer and his guests. As an extensive array of food and drink arrived to fill the table, JK then proceeded to give everything away, and we ended up in the street, outside Baskin Robbins eating ice cream. Both being a bit Francophile, and lubricated with fine malts, JK and I would extend our ‘intellectual’ discussions to the early hours. One of his favourite prose was “In the beginning is my end – In my end is my beginning” (T. S. Eliot). His English professor had written this on the blackboard at the start of the term to the utter confusion of the Japanese students. I think he’s been pondering it ever since.

Tokyo.
People who suffered under the Japanese during the war will recount that they are the most cruel, evil, and vindictive race imaginable. Who flipped the coin? Tokyo has a population of 36 million souls crammed in a space no bigger that New York (19.5 million), the only way it would work is with an inherent attitude of respect and consideration for each individual’s space and environment. They acknowledge each other with a step back, a polite bow, respectfully presenting a personal/business card with an engaging smile. I recall an amusing sight from a gantry at Haneda Airport - It must have been the assembly of some sort of woman’s convention – Hundreds of little ladies continually bobbing heads, and thrusting cards, weaving around greeting each other with boundless fervour. Intensity of traffic in Tokyo must come close to the world record, but a prevailing ‘give and take’ attitude, together with polite deference to fellow drivers (you never hear the sound of a horn) ensures an extraordinary smooth flow of traffic. Just imagine if those people were Italian? There would be utter anarchy. There’s no tipping in Japan, taxi drivers, waitresses, etc. Consider it an honour to serve, and every purchase is scrupulously conducted. I’ve nothing against Italians, but can you imagine this in the tourist area of Rome?

You remember those old arcade machines where you flipped little metal balls into compartments on the face. In Japan it’s called ‘Pachinko’, and the so-called ‘Parlours’ are all over Tokyo. If you can imagine an aircraft hanger filled with thousands of these machines, garish décor, flashing lights, a thick smoky haze, blaring western music, and above all the deafening clatter of metal balls, then you’ve arrived. When you do happen to hit a winning streak, what do you get? – More balls!!! – Millions of them – So much so that they have to come with a little trolley full of wooden boxes to cart them to the cash point. Cash Point? Well gambling’s illegal in Japan, so all you get is a ‘Gift’ token. You have to take this outside, down an alley, and trade with a representative of organized crime.

Mind you, my time in Tokyo wasn’t all spent indulging in Tappanyaki, Saké, pachinko, and Karaoke. My visit did coincide with the tenth anniversary of the opening of the Suntory Concert Hall, and the celebratory performance by the Yomiuri Nippon Symphony Orchestra was one of the most remarkable of my musical experiences.

Yamagata.
Built on a ‘Green Field’ site (if you imagine one in Japan), Ko-Pack’s Yamagata factory was constructed in the shape of a giant aircraft (another one of JKs conceptions); the fuselage was the preparation area (print drums, plates, inks, engineering, etc.), while the label production machines were spread out along the wings. Upstairs in the cockpit was the administration hub, and at the tail end was JKs private suite, which was convenient, as he would sometimes walk around the factory in his stripped pyjamas.

This was also my humble abode while he was away. As you can appreciate, print factories are normally messy places, but this one, you could quite literally eat your dinner off the floor, you even had to remove your shoes at the entrance and don slippers.

Don’t they have any homes to go to? Apparently at least, not much. My co-workers at Yamagata had a quite strange lifestyle, extremely diligent and productive in the factory, but completely uninhibited outside, taking the term work hard and play hard to the extreme. To be fair, housing in such an overpopulated environment, resulted in very cramped and flimsy construction. Indeed a colleague at Ko-Pack Peterborough related that having been invited to stay at a ‘House’ used by the many commuting workers (most only went home at weekends), nature called urgently in the middle of the night, and completely frustrated at being unable to find the sliding door, he burst through the wall. The big release for the Ko-Pac boys was the Karaoke Bars, all shapes and sizes, from one-roomed flats to elaborate lounges, each with individual ‘Attractions’. One of the endearing features of these nightspots was the young ladies. Now, these girls are not lap-dancers, strippers, or prostitutes, but professional ‘Companions’, salaried, tax paying working girls (they actually would clock on and off), who were there to flatter, rapturously applaud your pathetic renditions, and play little titivating games. My favourite was nibbling a sausage on a stick (yes, snacks were provided) from each end, until our lips met in an ‘embarrassed’ kiss. Obviously this is the modern equivalent of the Geisha.

“She would like to dance with you” said my translator Mr. Sato “I would be delighted” says I. After returning to the table after 20 minutes of ‘Close encounters’ (you couldn’t get a cigarette paper between us, and we hardly moved an inch), “what did she say Mr. Sato?” – “She say, you very good dancer!!!.” – “Oh!! – Tell her she also is a very good dancer” – “She say, she no go back to hotel with you tonight you have just met, maybe next time”. “Where shall we go tonight lads” said Mr. Sato after work – “Talent, Talent, I cry (this was the club from the previous night)” – “No, we go somewhere else” – Damn!!!. I must say, there was nothing sleazy about these places, all was above board and completely honest. I observed a young lady watering down a whisky poured for Mr. Nishiyama on one occasion, but she had considered he was overdoing it, and as the bottle was paid in advance, lined and signed for the next time, there would have been no advantage. She was quite right by the way, going to the loo later, I was obstructed by Nishiyama standing motionless in front of the door. He had half turned the handle, rested his head on the door and fell asleep.

Right!! Taxi home? Another innovation – Two guys arrive in the cab, one to drive you back, and another to drive your car – Drink driving laws are very strict in Japan.

Yamagata is in fact traditionally a spa resort, with natural hot springs renowned for their health giving attributes. These are enjoyed by a visit to the ‘Onsen’ (the baths). On entry (segregated), you are supplied with a robe and facecloth. The facecloth as it turns out is to cover your willy. Japanese men have very small willies, and whether or not they consider this an embarrassment, the facecloth is held over the crutch once the robe is removed, to be later placed on the head once you enter the water. But first, there’s a whole rigmarole of ritual to go through. Sitting on a three-legged stool in front of a gushing faucet, you fill a little wooden bucket and continually pour it over yourself, until you consider yourself scrupulously clean enough to enter the pool. Can you imagine getting into a giant bowl on mulligatawny soup? -Or could it be Brown Windsor? At first quite unbearable, gradually becoming very pleasant, and ultimately extremely refreshing. Sitting there with my willy exposed to the elements, its cover on my head, absorbing the rich vitamins through my pores, and acknowledging the smiles on the timorous faces that surrounded me, I really considered myself one of the natives. Quite comical in the dressing room afterwards, my co-mulligatawnies tended to stroll around chatting in their underpants. Now, the waist size of the western style Y-Fronts didn’t take into account the fact that Japanese have no backsides, so although the waist fitted snugly, the rest of the garment was left flapping about like a little mini skirt.

Following the famous Mogami river for about 30 miles to the south of Yamagata City, on its meandering way into the Japan Sea, a slight detour takes you up within the realms of the extremely beautiful Mount Haguro, immortalised by the Japanese equivalent to our Rabbie Burns, Matsuo Bashō. Where Burns poetry can possibly be described as all about wine, women, and song, Bashō’s could be described as, well, short. He was the master of ‘Haiku’, the very precious gift of condensing a whole spectrum of emotions, feelings, and observations into very few words.

You see, in the olden days, Japanese poets pleased their emperors by composing extremely long verse that would last sometimes days (yes, even longer than Tam O Shanter). So, they eventually developed a method of punting their wares by composing what would be described as a trailer today. This became shorter and shorter until the trailer became the actual poem.

Mizusawa.

Away to the north, this is a lush green region of the country, renowned for its meat production - Not a lot of it about in Japan!! Didn’t go there for a steak though, JK had just bought out the engineering firm (TOYO KOKI Co.) that had traditionally built his presses, and this was where ‘Emanon’ was to be giving birth.

For me though, one of the most interesting things about the company was its Founder and current President Mr. Toyoji Sasaki, a former Kamikaze Pilot. Oh Yes!! Now, you don’t meet many of them do you? The veteran reunions are renowned for their sparseness and brevity. As a seventeen-year-old Air Cadet he had ‘Volunteered’ for martyrdom at the very tail end of the war. Thirty planes had took off for a sortie immediately to be called back to base as peace had just broken out. Notwithstanding, only half a dozen actually returned to face the disgrace of a failed mission, the rest committing hara-kiri by ditching their planes into the sea. Still flying his own little plane at that time, the employees at the Toyo factory would regard the skies with trepidation every time he came into land on the company airstrip – You never know!!!

The Kamikaze Haiku.

In Blossom today then scattered

Life is so like a delicate flower

How can one expect the fragrance?

To last forever?
(Admiral Onishi Takijiro)

There’s more!!!

Emanon in Europe?

What happened to JK?

Any encouraging comments posted below would prompt me to continue.

Army Days

Please Note: - I don’t wish to upset anyone – The following article contains raucous language, together with incidents of a violent and sexual nature. If this is likely to offend, please accept my apologies, and read no further.

Army Days.

‘Musicians Wanted’ extolled the advert in the New Musical Express. Mind you, at that time (fifteen years old) I thought I was one. I’d learnt to play the clarinet at school, was part of the School Orchestra, and a couple of Jazz Bands (one called The Dundee Saints – Arghhhh!!!), so I read on. “The Loyal North Lancashire Regiment requires Bandsmen – Join up, become a professional musician, see the world, glamorous uniform, well paid, etc. etc.” Who could resist? So, after a frenzy of recruitment, medical examinations, signing up, and receiving the queens shilling, I’m on the train to Preston with my worldly possessions (plus clarinet), and a pink travel order from the recruitment office in Dundee. “Somebody will meet you at the station” they said “just make sure you have the slip in evidence”.

Preston station was a daunting place for a lad that had never been out of Scotland before, and obviously no one took me on, although I waved that bloody slip all over the place. Nothing for it but to phone the Barracks.

“Fullwood Barracks, Company Sergeant Major Perkins speaking, how can I help?”

“Hello. Yes, it’s Patrick Murray here, I’m a new recruit, no doubt you’re expecting me, I’ve just arrived from Dundee, but there’s nobody to meet me”.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh fucking dear!!! Do you hear this corporal? This lads just come all the way from Dundee and there’s no one to meet him at the station – What the fuck is this man’s army coming to? Are you sure you haven’t missed them son?”

“No, I’ve been all over the station with the pink slip in my hand, but no one’s come up to me”.

“Dear oh fucking dear – Hey! Corporal!!! – It gets worse – He’s been waving his pink slip all over the place, and he hasn’t been approached. Now, listen to this very clearly soldier, you’re in the army now – Get your fucking arse up here pronto!!!”

The phone went dead - “That’s not very nice,” I thought, but although this was my first encounter with Sergeant Major (Polly) Perkins, it certainly wasn’t going to be the last.

What I very soon began to realise was that the vast majority of people in the Army at that time didn’t necessarily want to be there. National Service was still in operation, and it had also become a refuge for waifs and strays of all sorts – delinquents, as an alternative sentencing – disinherited orphans – generally lost souls. Some developing a venomous hatred, and utter contempt for what they perceived as Hell on Earth.

On arrival outside the barracks, I encountered a case in point on guard duty.

“Hi, I’ve just joined up, where should I go?”

“Fuck off”

“Sorry?”

“Go on – Fuck off – Fuck off”. By this time he was pushing me forcefully away from the gate. “If you go through that gate, that’s the end of your life, believe me mate, you don’t want to get involved, do us both a big favour and fuck off now while you still have the chance”.

I eventually fought passed my erstwhile counsellor, and crossed the threshold into the abyss with cries of “You’ll be sorry” ringing in my ears. Needless to say, I wasn’t expected, and a hastily acquired mattress and some linen found me billeted in a room with Junior Bandsman Whitfield. Now, it didn’t occur to me that, although the other dormitories were pretty well packed, Whitfield and I should be shacked up in a large room on our own. “Would you like to be my friend?” he said. “Certainly” – A quick postcard off to mum >Just arrived, everything’s fine, signed up for the Cricket Team, and found a good friend<. Arriving back in the block after my first visit to the NAAFI with my friend, a chap passed me in the corridor, “He looks familiar” I thought, but it wasn’t him, it was the suit – He was wearing my suit!!! A very distinctive Prince-of-Wales check. “Hey!! That’s my suit”. “I’m just borrowing it for the night” he said “Anyway, your locker was open”. Finally leaving the guy standing in his non-regulation underpants, I rushed back to my locker to find, you’ve guessed it, all but empty. However, a fair bit of ranting and raving, and a quickly spreading rumour that a mad Scotsman was on the rampage violently striping people to their underpants, helped to retrieve most of my kit.

At lights out, I gratefully snuggled up in my pit, completely exhausted, dreaming about taking part in my first cricket match (I’ll pick it up) the following afternoon. Corporal Springer had waylaid me earlier – “You’re new, do you play cricket?” – “Never played in my life” – “Fine, you’re in the team”.

What a day!! Wait a minute it wasn’t quite over yet. In my slumber, perhaps enjoying an erotic dream, I stumbled into consciousness with the stark realisation that Whitfield was in bed beside me, completely naked in an aroused state of mind. After frantic efforts in dislodging him, he looked at me in a hurtful sulk. “ I thought you wanted to be my friend?” – “Yes” I said, “But not that fucking friendly”.

Some time later (a Junior Corporal; by now) I was ‘requested’ to perform the function of ‘Right Marker’ at Muster Parade. This requires a representative of each Company to formally position themselves on the square in advance of each squad marching on to the Parade Ground to the accompaniment of the Regimental Band. They would march up to their recognised marker where formal dressing into ranks would commence. On the command of ‘Right Dress’ the marker would line up each row (extended right arm, eyes right and a lot of shuffling) by indicating any soldier out of line. “Get back number three,” I shouted – Oh no!! Sergeant Major (Polly) Perkins was approaching me. “ What did you say Laddie? – Say again” – “Get back number three” I retorted – “What’s that, you want a cup of tea?” – He instinctively knew that, although the row upon row of sternly fixed regimental faces behind him were revelling in this banter, no outward indication would be detected for fear of recrimination. He was in complete control, after all it was his parade ground, it was his regiment, it was his barracks, it was his fucking army. Frustration that everyone didn’t necessarily acknowledge this fact developed in him a sardonic approach to all and sundry, particularly officers. He would casually walk past young lieutenants, pretending to be in ignorance their proximity, then suddenly clicking his heels together in a smart salute and shouting “I SALUTED YOU SIR!!!” Then taking great delight in the bumbling apologies gushing forth from the young sprog of an officer “Oh, oh, sorry Sergeant Major, I honestly didn’t see you”. Even the Commanding Officer wasn’t exempt, entering the overflowing gym hall before the start of one of the monthly boxing exhibition bouts, smoking was strictly forbidden - He shouted, “Who the fuck’s that smoking up the front corporal?” - “It’s the CO Sir” the corporal fearfully replied. Walking smartly to the front seats, the Sergeant Major beamed into the senior officer’s face – “ Soothing, isn’t it sir” he genially observed.

Anyway, I diversify; Polly’s attention on the Parade Ground was now fully occupied by my good self, and something a lot more serious had become apparent to him, something he now realised, should have become more and more obvious over the past number weeks. Now behind me, his mouth was almost touching my left ear. “ Am I hurting you son?” He bawled with mock concern – “No Sergeant Major”- “are you sure I’m not giving you any pain?” - “ No Sergeant Major” - “Well I should be, I’m STANDING ON YOUR FUCKING HAIR!!!! – Take off your beret - Oh, for fuck sake, you look like Shirley Temple – How dare you come on my parade looking like a big tart – You!! And You!! Escort - Guard Room!! – Up, one two, one two” I was consequently accompanied on the double to detention, where my belt, tie, and shoelaces were promptly removed in case of attempted suicide (Over a haircut?).

Sitting alone my cell, I now began to contemplate. How had it had all come to this? Had it all started so innocently? Ginger, the camp barber, was a cripple, and he, like most of the National Service guys whose hair he sheared to destruction (what style would you like? He would sneer), hated the army, but only because they wouldn’t let him in. Mr. Teazy Weazy he wasn’t, but it was a living I suppose, and like most barbers at that time, he had a lucrative sideline in selling contraceptives. Alf Bentley and I had met a couple of nice girls while strolling (or prowling) in Avenham Park Preston the previous week, and a date was arranged for the coming Saturday. Being conscientious men about town, and with more bravado than expectations, it was considered that the purchase of jonnies would be in order. By the time that word and banter had got around a little, I had acquired the money for five packs, and trotted off to see Ginge. He was in a bad mood, with a room full of new recruits giving him more flak than he would have expected on the front line. “Five packs of Durex” I whispered in his ear. “ What? Five packs of Durex” he shouted, “ You’re going to be doing some shagging!!” The assembled audience of course took up this theme, “ I’ve already been out with her, is five packs enough?” said one, “He just uses them for wanking, he’ll be back for more tomorrow” said another, “that’ll do you for five years then” – “He puts on three at a time to make his cock bigger”, and so it went on until Ginge finally came up with the goods and I went sheepishly on my way – You swine Ginge!!

There was another thing Ginge hated with intensity, and that was the ‘celebrated’ Junior Core of Drums. A rabble on the march (they were only learning), with bugles blaring and drums thumping, the din would resonate all around the barrack buildings. As they passed his shop he would rush to close the windows, and hold his hands over his ears, but needless to say the noise would still penetrate, compounding his consternation and drowning his torrent of expletives. As a Bandsman, I had nothing to do with the Core of Drums. However, as an inspirational thought, or more likely a streak of malice, Drum Major Greenwood gave me command of the ‘ensemble’ one fine afternoon. Swaggering with Mace in hand, I led them off on their daily round of musical destruction. They must have felt a bit miffed that one of their own hadn’t been chosen, so they were up for a bit mischief. The front line, deliberately taking shorter steps than I was, created a 25-yard gap between us, resulting in a lot of pointing and sniggering of bystanders as I passed, my smart marching, and flamboyant swinging gestures with the mace completely detached from any link with a band. Finally daring to flaunt protocol by turning around, there was nothing behind me, I had turned a corner and they had gone straight on. As luck (or divine providence) would have it, I caught up, and halted them, just in front of Ginge’s shop. Now, I must admit, retaliation came to mind, it was now payback time for my pent-up humiliation. Ginge was already closing the windows and gesticulating through the glass, and the band were annoyed at having their triumphant march interrupted. Nobody’s going anywhere I decided, and to the accompaniment of Ginge’s hobbling up and down through the window, his rage red face matching his ginger hair, the core of drums were put through their whole 20 minute repertoire. The next time I went to Ginge for a haircut, I was kindly advised to “FUCK-OFF YOU SCOTTISH BASTARD”.

Nobody actually paid Ginge for a haircut, and as he obviously couldn’t rely on any tips, his imbursement came from a levy deducted from the soldier’s wages. So, in effect, I was paying for the privilege of being told to F-OFF every time I went to the barbers. The wages clerk was sympathetic, but he said there was nothing he could do about it, and my superiors resigned themselves to the fait accompli situation of my hair getting longer and longer, until Sergeant Major ‘Polly’ Perkins ended up standing on it. On my release from prison the following morning, Ginge and I were paraded in front of Lieutenant Colonel William Snodgrass CO Commanding the Lancastrian Brigade. “ What do you say Lance Corporal Murray” he said looking up from the papers. “He called me a Scottish Bastard Sir,” I said. The colonel looked me straight in the face, “Well, you are a Scottish Bastard – What are you?” “A Scottish Bastard Sir” I replied. “There”, said the CO turning to Ginge, “You’re both in agreement, now take him away and give him a haircut”.

Paddy McAllister was has tough as they come, a squat, pug nosed, second generation ‘Liverpool Irish’, and regimental Boys Boxing Champion. He was scared of nothing or no one - Except Corporal Green that is - a weedy little cornet player with an impish grin. The reason Paddy lived in fear and trepidation of this innocuous individual was quite simple, Greenie had an enormous crush on him.


At that time there were four of us in the Junior Corporal’s dormitory, Paddy, Greenie, a big fellow from Manchester named Hull, and myself. Every night Cpl Green would snuggle up in bed early to watch Cpl McAllister undress and get into bed naked (very quickly, with a furtive eye!!), a simple pleasure you may consider, but Paddy was becoming more and more agitated. You see Paddy, a peace loving character despite his aggressive capabilities, was very apprehensive that if he ever did remonstrate with his ardent admirer, he would end up killing him. And so the situation settled into an uneasy compromise, with both parties restraining their natural instincts. Until one day!!!

Paddy was wallowing in the bath (possibly up to something naughty), when all of a sudden there was a blinding flash of light; Greenie had climbed over the top of the cubicle, and was snapping away with his new camera. Bursting out of the latrines completely naked, Paddy accosted me in the corridor “Hold me” – “Don’t let me loose “ – “I’m going to kill him”. Realising the seriousness of the situation, I got Paddy in a bear hug, and despite his struggles, manage to restrain him long enough to talk some sense into him. By this time a small group had gathered around, no doubt wondering what kinky antics a naked Irishman and a clothed Scotsman were up to – Attempted rape? It was decided that, embarrassing as Paddy felt it was for him, to approach an officer on the subject, and I would accompany him for support.

Young Mr. Lees was on national service, fresh out of university, way out of his depth in a military role. He decided to teach us how to play proper rugby one time – As we went into a ruck, they all had a good kick at him, and he ended up having to be stretchered off to the medical wing. Paddy and I entered his office rather sheepishly “Corporal Green assaulted me” blurted out Paddy straight away. “Oh dear, I take it that it wasn’t a physical assault” said Mr. Lees apprehensively “what about you Murray?”- “Here for support sir” – “what happened then? “He took my photo,” said Paddy. Although Mr. Lees shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, he knew there was more to come – “I was naked, in the bath at the time,” said Paddy before braking into his “I’ll kill him” routine. Greenie was finally decanted to another dormitory, and peace once again prevailed in the ‘Boy’s Wing’ – But not for long!!!

Tabiner and Yates were a couple of hard men from Liverpool. They were lithe young lads with a fierce countenance, their formidable appearance greatly accentuated by shaven skulls. You see, when a period of guardhouse detention of over three days was decreed; heads were shaved to deter prisoners absconding. The theory being that escapees would stand out at railway/bus stations, hitchhiking, etc. while trying to distance themselves from the dragnet of the Preston police (remember, these were in the days of Elvis, Tony Curtis, and the emergence of the Beatles). The bare skull was obviously also meant as type of punishment and deterrent to others, but Tabiner and Yates continued to shave their heads even when released, perhaps in anticipation of reoffending, or as a badge of honour. This formidable pair ruthlessly exploited the precarious lives of the ‘Boy’s Wing’, controlling all the rackets, such as money lending (pay back double on pay day), single ciggies (at two bob a throw), and protection (get someone of your back at a negotiable price). As the Pay Master administered to the queue of eager recipients, the mini mafia were around the corner severely lightening their customer’s pay packets, and maintaining the continuing need for their services. Senior NCOs largely ignored this entrepreneurial pair, considering them a couple of hopeless, or more likely ‘Basket’ cases, giving them a six- bed room to themselves, and even indulging in their provision (at a discount) when desperate for a smoke. However, their whole empire was about to tumble, with tragic consequences, but unfortunately not for them.


Drum Major Greenwood would be considered crazy by some (if not all). A rotund, robust gentleman in his forties, who, following a long and distinguish? Military career, was put out to grass (or out of the way) by being given ‘parental’ control of the boy’s wing. He ran his domain with what could be considered as a serious joke, ranting and raving one minute, jovial and backslapping the next. “What’s your first name son?” he once bellowed at a young lad from West Wales,” Anthony” said the boy in a broad welsh accent – “Ant any?” – “ What do you mean you ‘Ant any’? – “Everybody has a first name!!!” – Where are you from?” – “West Wales” – “Welsh Wales? I though all Wales was welsh!! As duty junior NCO, my job was to get everybody up in the morning, starting with the Drum Major, who, when obliged to stay over, occupied the single room across from mine. I’d enter his room after a gentle tap with a tray containing ‘tea for two’ and biscuits. Not for us to enjoy together I may add, he’d invariably had a skin full the night before and invited his ‘frightfully attractive’ amorous encounter back to enjoy the delights of the barracks. Needless to say the alcohol enhanced ‘frightfully attractive’ apparition would be reassessed the following morning on being awoken by me in a single army iron bed rendering a coy smile while pulling the sheet over her voluptuous top half – A polite “thank you Corporal Murray” from the Drum Major ensured my complete discretion. It’s Drum Major Greenwood we also had to thank for our repertoire of bawdy songs, on the way to our camp in North Wales, sitting with us in the back of the lorry, he would lead the chorus of the ‘Queen Street Girls’ – “ We are from Queen Street, good girls are we, we take a pride in our virginity etc. etc.” – Unloading a barrel of beer clubbed together for the senior NCOs, he placed it in a cool mountain stream for later consumption, although I suspect he harboured little chance of an amours encounter to share his bivouac that night. When the beer disappeared he knew instinctively that Tabiner and Yates was responsible, but by the time he caught up with them they had almost drained the barrel, and were dancing around half naked in a gully severely disquieting some sheep. “I’ll sort you two out” raged the Drum Major. The delinquent pair, considering themselves already beyond any meaningful punishment, could not imagine the tragic consequences that would develop, but unfortunately not for them.

John Bottomley really shouldn’t have been in the army. He was a tall gangly lad somewhat congenial, but naïve to the extent of being generally considered dim. His mother had just married again to a military man and possibly being considered as being ‘in the way’ he was encouraged to join up – “Toughen the lad up”. Because of his size and bruiser appearance, combining a soft, insecure, and defensive nature, he was obviously a target for serial bullying. However, in a fit of benevolence, having developed quite a tough reputation myself (I’d been in a few scrapes), I took him under my wing, and became his mate, or as it eventually turned out, his worst enemy. John was a military disaster area. It was considered practical, in order to get the best possible shine on your boots, to ‘Bone’ the pimples out with a hot spoon, now and again tendering the toe to the open flame, setting the wax alight for a second - a quick blow out then a good rub with the back of the spoon. Needless to say John presented me with his boots, the toes burnt through, his fingers blackened and burned – “ How can I fix it Jock?” His uniform hung on him like loose khaki sacking, and something I’d never encountered before – A complete lack of coordination between his top and bottom half, so that as he marched, his left arm came forward with his left leg, and vice versa - His arse sticking out and his chest pushing forward – Bottomley indeed!!! Things got so bad that squad commanders, to maintain their square-bashing persona, would surreptitiously attach him to another squads, and he was inevitably passed around, never knowing where he’d end up when the parade had finished. At that time the boys were only allowed out of the barracks in uniform, not a bad thing really, it did seem to attract the girls. However, according to some undefined regulation, a certain standard of appearance had to be maintained, and this was assessed at the mercy of whichever Provo corporal who happened to be manning the gatehouse. Taking John (my mate!!) into town initiatively involved several trips back and forward to the gate, until the ‘Assessor’ was finally satisfied, or worn down. It wasn’t that he had no interest in girls (there was nothing queer about John), but he was absolutely useless at supporting any chat up approaches. “I wouldn’t know what to do Jock,” he would say.

Eventually disaster wove its sinister web.

Drum Major Greenwood, giving an excuse that it was to ‘toughen the lad up’, extorted his twisted revenge for the theft of his beer by decreeing that: -

Junior Drummer Bottomley be lodged in the room with Tabiner and Yates.

John was condemned to a living hell. Far from feeling punished by the situation, Tabiner & Yates revelled in their new toy, only being limited in the terror, humiliation, and violence they could inflict by the extent of their imagination. Believe it on not (it’s absolutely true), somehow they acquired a Stag’s head from the officers mess (stolen? Or perhaps it had been laid aside during refurbishment). Tabiner, covered with a blanket, and crowned with the head, secreted himself on the windowsill behind the curtains by John’s bed. Yates removed the light bulb; they both awaited John’s tentative entrance, scaring the living daylights out of him.

John was so traumatised by the incident that there was no way he could spend another night in that room with those crackpots. I gave him my room for the night, and spent an incident free kip in the company of Tabiner & Yates. The next morning we tackled Drum Major Greenwood on the issue of John’s accommodation. He had already heard of the charade, and took great delight in the vision of John shitting himself over the sudden appearance of a Stag at his bedside. Considering however, that it was all part of the toughening up process, or more likely, not wanting to be seen as giving in to the Beastie Boys, he insisted on the status quo.

It seemed a quite logical solution to me at the time – Turn the tables on the tormentors, by making them apprehensive of John. He would, without warning, smash one of them full in the face with all his strength, possibly breaking his jaw. Commotion would undoubtedly ensue, but when things stabilised, they would never be completely sure of him again. Sorted? John obviously took great persuading in adopting the idea, eventually laying our friendship on the line, I coerced him into an uneasy compliance. That night, a picture of tranquillity, Yates was sitting on his bed bulling his boots. With me as backup, John was to stroll in and belt him one. A bloody fight would evidently be detonated, but it would be between Yates and myself, and I would have the advantage of a somewhat (hopefully) dilapidated foe.

John tentatively approached Yates sitting on the bed, fists clenched tight, with a mixed expression of determination and fear. Yates looked up inquisitively “What the fuck do you want?” John’s body started to shake all over before collapsing in a heap at Yates’s feet – The medics took him away semi conscious mumbling about how he’d let his mate down – Never heard hide not hair of him again.