Pretty Boy - If I Come After You Beware 'Cos Hell's Coming With Me. Roy Shaw
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