Fishers of Men - The Gripping True Story of a British Undercover Agent in Northern Ireland. Rob Lewis
group. I had a good bunch of schoolmates who were great fun, and we stuck together, but these four were way beyond the level of friendship I had with them. Before the week was out I had spoken to my father and told him of my intentions. It was not a problem for him or my mother – I think they were quietly happy about my decision after seeing what my brother had achieved – but because I was underage for adult service, I needed his permission and his signature on the forms to allow me to join up. I think he was quite pleased that after so many years of being a bit of a daydreamer and obviously not being destined to go to Oxbridge, I had made a decision for myself. Even if it was influenced by circumstances close to home, this was the first positive sign I had shown for some time. I had initially wanted to join my brother’s regiment straight away, but the four of them convinced me that I should join a corps first and gain a trade. If I still wanted to go into their regiment after that, then at least I would have something to fall back on for the future should things not turn out for the best. It made sense.
My father and I travelled to the army careers office in Cardiff, and I went through the various tests and interviews to gain entry as a junior soldier. Surprisingly, I passed all the tests with flying colours and was given the option of entering any arm or service, with a range of trades on offer, from taking up employment in the Army Air Corps as a helicopter mechanic through to being a Pioneer Corps trench-digger. I opted for a middle-of-the-road choice and took my oath of allegiance to Queen and country.
That September I arrived at the Army Apprentice College in Chepstow, not a million miles from home but far enough away for a new start in an adult life. I was to embark on a two-year apprenticeship as plant operator and mechanic with the Royal Engineers. Chepstow offered a good learning curve for a sometimes wayward sixteen-year-old, but there was still something missing. The soldiers in the corps I was with did not have the same bond of comradeship I had seen in my brother and his mates. There was just something that I could never quite put my finger on which made them different. After a while I began to get itchy feet.
I decided that after finishing my apprenticeship I would transfer to my brother’s regiment and join the Royal Armoured Corps. During the period after finishing at Chepstow I was at the School of Engineering in Chatham, Kent, completing my City and Guilds in plant engineering, when I approached the adjutant and told him about my wish to transfer. He completely dismissed my request and told me that because of the amount of money invested in my training by the corps I was destined to stay with the Royal Engineers for a minimum period of three years. Wrong. The British Army has some strange and ancient traditions, one of which is an historic rule that allows brothers, sons and fathers to ‘claim’ their blood relatives into whichever regiment of corps they are in – with the consent of both parties, of course. So, with the shake of a short stick, I was on my way to Catterick Garrison in Yorkshire, much to the annoyance of my sapper adjutant.
Catterick at the time was the Royal Armoured Corps training centre. It was where newly joined-up recruits went through what the army calls Basic Military Training. This includes a period of drill, weapons handling followed by drill, bed-pack-making with a hint of drill and when there were periods between bulling boots and being shouted at there would always be the opportunity for a short period of more drill.
After this initial ‘beasting’ period the recruits then progressed to trade training. My contemporaries at Chepstow had moved on to their basic military training at the Royal Engineers Training Regiment in Dover, Kent, while I had been at Chatham. I would have been due to follow them into this abyss after completing my exams. It was time for me to put to the test my well-honed skills at bluff and double bluff. With all the brass neck I could muster, I strolled into the chief clerk’s office of the resident armoured corps training regiment and announced myself as Sapper Lewis, recently transferred from the Royal Engineers at Chatham for trade training with his regiment, prior to posting. He immediately took my bundle of paperwork and documents and rang the guardroom and informed them that I was to be allocated a single room in the permanent staff block away from the recruits. The grin on my face on the walk up to the block would have put the proverbial Cheshire cat to shame. I had managed to sneak through the net and into the regular army without having to go through the drill and bullshit of basic training. I wonder how many other soldiers can claim the same?
Trade training progressed, and after passing the various phases in the driving and basic maintenance of tracked vehicles I moved on to the signals wing to complete my basic radio course. I collected my posting order to Germany soon after. By the middle of August 1978 I was in Hohne Garrison, near Bergen-Belsen, in a reconnaissance regiment equipped with Scimitar and Scorpion light armoured vehicles. Hohne was not exactly the best place in the world. It was home to a few thousand troops from a variety of countries, including American and Dutch conscripts. The latter were the butt of endless ribbing from the British troops. They were quite well equipped, had casually styled uniforms and most resembled Anneka Rice with their long, flowing blond hair. They invariably sauntered around the garrison with cigarettes dangling from the sides of their mouths and were not the slightest bit interested in being soldiers. I often toyed with the idea of doing a runner to Amsterdam, claiming asylum, and returning to Hohne as a ‘Cloggie’ conscript soldier, so I could walk around camp with my hands in my pockets and a strange-smelling roll-up cigarette dangling precariously from my lips.
Hohne was also home to several other British Army regiments. It also contained the sum total of one nightclub, which was frequented by all parties. Friday and Saturday nights were always the scene of pitched battles between rival units, a bit like being back home, really. The club concerned made a fortune in overpriced beer sales, which probably more than adequately covered the cost of the glasses smashed every night and the windows that were caved in by flying bar stools from time to time. It really was the stuff of television Western-style bar-room brawls. However, this was for real. It was not unusual to go out into the early-morning light after leaving the club to see a line of blue flashing lights on vehicles belonging to Military Police representatives from several NATO countries who were helping the German civilian police to keep the soldiers from their various nations in order, a job they were most welcome to.
For the first few years my view of the army was distorted by the fact that all the places I had been so far were training establishments. Lance-corporals ran around shooting, corporals walked about shouting, sergeants stood still and pointed while they shouted, and everyone was scared shitless of the guy who was known as the sergeant-major. Officers never spoke to you properly. The only contact I really made with any officers was when I saluted them as I moved around camp and said ‘Good morning’ or ‘Good afternoon, sir’, which was invariably ignored other than for a pathetic reciprocal salute. After three years I still did not actually know what officers did. Twenty-three years later I could probably still toss a coin over that one.
With this distorted view it was an amazing shock to the system to arrive at my new regiment on a Friday afternoon to find the squadron I was joining in the throes of a ‘happy hour’. This time-honoured tradition consisted of everyone leaving the cookhouse on a Friday lunchtime and going straight to the squadron bar. All ranks from troopers through to warrant officer, from second lieutenant to major, were all in the bar, all in work dress, and all drinking and having a laugh together. I was greeted at the squadron block by my brother and two of his mates, whom I knew well from their previous stays at my parents’ home. My cases were unceremoniously dumped in the clerk’s office and I was taken to the squadron bar. There were handshakes all round and load of introductions made; things were looking very good. One of the first introductions was to my new squadron sergeant-major, the man with the dreaded rank. He looked at me, asked me what I wanted to drink and then proceeded to give me my welcome interview to the squadron there and then, in the bar. This chat was swiftly followed by my introduction to the squadron leader, a major by rank, who tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I was as handy a rugby player as my brother was. This appeared to be his main concern. He told me that he hoped I would be turning out regularly for both the squadron and regimental teams. The icing on the cake, after he had brought me my drink, was to ask me which troop I fancied going to. What the hell was going on here?
The choice of troop he gave me was quite laughable. In his well-toned but slightly drink-slurred upper-class voice, he informed me that 2nd Troop were off to Berlin, ‘for a jolly’, 3rd Troop were off to the South of France canoeing for