Robinson's Jam Man 'Strikes Back'
Chapter 10
During the first few days back with my Company after my operation I felt on top of my 'game' again. I quickly fell back into a routine of patrols, SAGAR duty, camera duty, QRF duty, with intermittent breaks for food and sleep. Ben Gunn the brick commander had rejoined E14C it was good to have him back and I was content just to be with the 'lads'.
At no time did I receive any follow up treatment, nor was I told to report anywhere to 'see' anyone. A few guys made a comment or two along the lines of 'why did I allow myself to get hit'? These comments were made as a joke but I took them really personally and 'bit' straight back. These outbursts took some by surprise as it was unusual for me to react in this way. I began keeping more and more to myself, taking each day as it came.
In May I received a letter dated 28th of April 1987. This letter stated that a claim had been received for Criminal Injury Compensation and that a Major P D McEvoy, an SO2 legal officer, would process the claim on my behalf. It also stated that precise details would be obtained from my Medical Officer and consultant surgeons. Finally, the letter said claims took some time to resolve but to contact Major McEvoy if I required any further information.
To me it looked like all had been taken care of. The unit Medical Officer would see me if need be in due course and I didn't need to do anything other than keep my head down and do my job.
The trouble started the first time I had to 'walk' down the road where the incident and my injury had happened.
I had my first vivid flashback.
An utter sense of helplessness. The anger, the pain, and a new feeling of panic washed over me.
It seemed like I was in two places at once. I guess anyone looking at me would not have seen anything out of the ordinary because I continued to react and respond as I should have. However behind my eyes an 'overlaid' image of the incident played out.
Halfway down Spring Hill Avenue we had to stop. I found hard cover and observed my arcs of fire as tightness in my chest increased. Even writing these words now I can 'feel' a hand clutching my heart and squeezing.
A group of PIGS appeared. It looked like we were to cover a patrol exiting the Bally Murphy estate. A group of kids soon materialised and started making their presence felt by spitting at me and other troops. I felt sorry for the children of Ireland. What a God awful place to grow up.
We had been trained to be mindful of 'hearts and minds' and where possible we tried to interact with the kids to give a positive impression of the British forces. Hand on heart, I knew of no one who did anything but show complete restraint when dealing with the general population, especially the kids.
Being spat on certainly wasn't fun but nor was it anything unusual. The children knew that we would not retaliate which gave them confidence to do it, coupled with the fact that most of their parents encouraged them to try and 'piss us off'.
One kid ran at me and made a sudden grab for my beret. The flash of movement seemed like another blow was being aimed at me. I knew that it was only kids but it took everything I had not to explode and attack. An inner battle was raging inside my head. Basic animal instincts flight or fight. Training told me to hold my ground and not be distracted.
Another lunge, another kid trying to grab my hat.
It seems so simple now to think that I should have just removed my beret and put it in my pocket, but there and then it felt as if I was fighting with myself for my very soul.
Success then for the kids. My beret was off my head and they were running away. I gave chase but realised that this was foolish.
We were taught all through training, over and over, again and again "do not lose equipment". Water bottles, gloves, berets and the like had all been used as lures to soldiers. They had in the past been packed with explosives and detonated when passing soldiers tried to pick them up. I had just added to this list of lures.
My self-loathing knew no bounds. I was useless, a failure, a piece of shit, pond life at best. Again even now, after all of these years, as I type these words I hate myself for this cock up.
I returned to my cover. Ben came up and threw a helmet at me.
"Put that on", he stated and marched off.
"I deserved that", I thought to myself, convinced that more would come.
I wasn't to be disappointed.
Some stage later we mounted up in the PIGS and returned to base.
After the usual routine we headed off to our room but Ben had to go and report my 'loss'. As Ben did this, rest of us went up to our room; stowed weapons and removed flack jackets. The door soon opened and Ben came in.
'Here it comes', I thought.
After stashing his stuff Ben walked over to me. I was sitting on my bed; he grabbed me by the throat and punched me in the face.
I cannot remember the words he said. I knew I was having the verbal stripping down of my life. I knew my nose was broken again, and in that moment all I wanted to do was stand up a beat the shit out of Ben.
I nevertheless stayed still, hands at my side, even though it felt cowardly to just 'take it'. Inside my head a now very small voice told me that if I
fought back I'd be gone. Again a resolve not to let the guys down took hold. I clung to this like a drowning man to a life vest; it was all I had left. Even Ben, my new tormentor, I didn't want to let down.
Ben released me and told me to 'clean myself up'. I stood without a word and grabbed a towel out of my locker. I walked out of the room and headed down the corridor, the battle in my head continuing.
"Damn, got your nose busted again", a voice exclaimed.
"Fuck off and die", I spat out. I have no idea who this person was. I didn't register them in my vision.
In the washroom I filled a sink with water. Putting a thumb on either side of my nose I popped it in what felt like a straight line. I didn't look in the mirror; I didn't want to see the look in my own eyes, so disgusted I was with myself.
Right there and then, for the only time in my life, if there had been a way to 'end' it all I would have taken it. After all I'd seen and experienced, this was my lowest point.
I felt I was a failure to myself and my regiment. I was / I was not to blame. I did my job to the best of my ability and to the required standard / I was useless! Backwards and forwards, guilt and rage. Could I have done more? Should I have done less?
At some point I went back to my room. The TV was on. Terry and Ben were sitting in the two chairs quietly watching it. Chris, still sitting on his bed, was eating snacks he'd bought from the NAFFI.
Ben offered me a lolly out of a bag of sweets he was eating. I didn't feel like one but saw this as a peace offering so all appeared to be back to normal. I took one.
-//-
Soon the routine of active service took over and the troubles in my mind were pushed into the background or so I thought. I didn't know it at that time but I was talking less and less. I now also hated the look in my eyes and avoided mirrors and getting my picture taken.
I had to dig deep. Barriers were erected. I learnt to survive in my own private hell, that was all, and it was enough. I worked to live, burying myself in the task at hand.
In reality I had sunk to the lowest point of my life, a very short life at that stage.
I was still in Belfast when at the end of June a second letter arrived. Major P D McEvoy again the author.
I had never seen him, never had a call from he or anyone else asking how I was. Like I said earlier, I had not had any further medical attention since 'escaping' Musgrave Park Hospital. No unit Medical Officer had asked to see me and, in truth, nor had I sought anyone out.
So when the letter asked me to sign the certificate at its foot "if I thought I had recovered as much as I was going to from my injury", I was a little stunned. Though not as much as I was when I read a paragraph further on. This asked "Are you still in pain or discomfort? Do you re-live the incident? Has your involvement in the incident or your injury interfered with your social and domestic activities?"
How the hell was I supposed to answer that? If I was honest I thought I'd be 'sectioned' if I said what was going on in my head. If I was really honest, I didn't want to deal with what was going on in my head. Last of all, I was still on active duty. I hadn't yet experienced and therefore didn't know if the injury would interfere with my 'social and domestic activities'!
Just wanting it over and done with, I signed and that was that.
With body and mind shored up as best as I was able I got on with 'living'. But the thin veil of humanity with which I was deluding myself kept on getting holes poked through it.
Eventually the time would come when silly petty things would send me tumbling inside myself. These did not happen while still in Belfast but some happened soon after and others much later on. All of them would start with a sense of self-worthlessness and would end with an inner argument about what I could have done differently. I had no worse critic or enemy than myself.
Who was the Robinson's Jam Man now? Was the colour now draining out of my face, in panic at what I was becoming? Had the 'original' struck again with one final 'blow'?
One thing which put me into one of these spins had its origins in a company photograph taken outside North Howard Street Mill. All the 'occupants' of the mill posed for a photograph, and as we filed back inside our names were taken by the Regimental Sergeant Major and a few members of the Battalion HQ staff. The names taken down would appear printed at the bottom of the picture in a mimic of where we appeared on the picture above.
A comment was made about my beret and that I had to get a new one. The chance of getting any new kit was next to nil and I ended up getting the beret of someone who was hospitalised and would not be coming back, (I think it was 'Smiler' Howarth's.)
By the time the picture was produced we were all back in Germany the tour in Northern Ireland over. C Company had been split up and I was back with my mates in Milan Platoon. Reading the 'standing orders' one afternoon in the Support Company HQ, I was informed of two things: that the picture taken was ready for people to order, and that our 'medals' had arrived.
Excitement went through me as I went in search of a copy of the picture, wanting to check it out. As soon as I found one I knew exactly where I had been positioned and located myself, 'ugly prick', I thought!
For a reason I cannot explain I then looked for my name.
It wasn't there.
I looked again and again, reading through the whole list. My name was missing. Upon mentioning this I was told "that it was too late to change". It felt to me at that time as if this had been done on purpose.
A fear of being forgotten took hold. Years later would people looking at this picture remember I was there? I said I didn't want a picture not even one on which the names were not printed.
A white cardboard box was then passed to me; with some other people in the office at the same time each receiving one of their own. A little white box with a piece of paper stating my name and regimental number, all held together like everyone else's with an elastic band.
I opened my box and found my medal, General Service Medal 1962 with clasp Northern Ireland. What is now my most treasured possession was handed out in a plain cardboard box! No pomp and circumstance, no ceremony. No pinning medals to chests. We all received our medals like it was an embarrassment.
I knew it was the same for everyone, but, like the picture, I took it
personally. The small stuff was really gnawing away at me and would continue to
do so throughout the following years.
Chapter 10
During the first few days back with my Company after my operation I felt on top of my 'game' again. I quickly fell back into a routine of patrols, SAGAR duty, camera duty, QRF duty, with intermittent breaks for food and sleep. Ben Gunn the brick commander had rejoined E14C it was good to have him back and I was content just to be with the 'lads'.
At no time did I receive any follow up treatment, nor was I told to report anywhere to 'see' anyone. A few guys made a comment or two along the lines of 'why did I allow myself to get hit'? These comments were made as a joke but I took them really personally and 'bit' straight back. These outbursts took some by surprise as it was unusual for me to react in this way. I began keeping more and more to myself, taking each day as it came.
In May I received a letter dated 28th of April 1987. This letter stated that a claim had been received for Criminal Injury Compensation and that a Major P D McEvoy, an SO2 legal officer, would process the claim on my behalf. It also stated that precise details would be obtained from my Medical Officer and consultant surgeons. Finally, the letter said claims took some time to resolve but to contact Major McEvoy if I required any further information.
To me it looked like all had been taken care of. The unit Medical Officer would see me if need be in due course and I didn't need to do anything other than keep my head down and do my job.
The trouble started the first time I had to 'walk' down the road where the incident and my injury had happened.
I had my first vivid flashback.
An utter sense of helplessness. The anger, the pain, and a new feeling of panic washed over me.
It seemed like I was in two places at once. I guess anyone looking at me would not have seen anything out of the ordinary because I continued to react and respond as I should have. However behind my eyes an 'overlaid' image of the incident played out.
Halfway down Spring Hill Avenue we had to stop. I found hard cover and observed my arcs of fire as tightness in my chest increased. Even writing these words now I can 'feel' a hand clutching my heart and squeezing.
A group of PIGS appeared. It looked like we were to cover a patrol exiting the Bally Murphy estate. A group of kids soon materialised and started making their presence felt by spitting at me and other troops. I felt sorry for the children of Ireland. What a God awful place to grow up.
We had been trained to be mindful of 'hearts and minds' and where possible we tried to interact with the kids to give a positive impression of the British forces. Hand on heart, I knew of no one who did anything but show complete restraint when dealing with the general population, especially the kids.
Being spat on certainly wasn't fun but nor was it anything unusual. The children knew that we would not retaliate which gave them confidence to do it, coupled with the fact that most of their parents encouraged them to try and 'piss us off'.
One kid ran at me and made a sudden grab for my beret. The flash of movement seemed like another blow was being aimed at me. I knew that it was only kids but it took everything I had not to explode and attack. An inner battle was raging inside my head. Basic animal instincts flight or fight. Training told me to hold my ground and not be distracted.
Another lunge, another kid trying to grab my hat.
It seems so simple now to think that I should have just removed my beret and put it in my pocket, but there and then it felt as if I was fighting with myself for my very soul.
Success then for the kids. My beret was off my head and they were running away. I gave chase but realised that this was foolish.
We were taught all through training, over and over, again and again "do not lose equipment". Water bottles, gloves, berets and the like had all been used as lures to soldiers. They had in the past been packed with explosives and detonated when passing soldiers tried to pick them up. I had just added to this list of lures.
My self-loathing knew no bounds. I was useless, a failure, a piece of shit, pond life at best. Again even now, after all of these years, as I type these words I hate myself for this cock up.
I returned to my cover. Ben came up and threw a helmet at me.
"Put that on", he stated and marched off.
"I deserved that", I thought to myself, convinced that more would come.
I wasn't to be disappointed.
Some stage later we mounted up in the PIGS and returned to base.
After the usual routine we headed off to our room but Ben had to go and report my 'loss'. As Ben did this, rest of us went up to our room; stowed weapons and removed flack jackets. The door soon opened and Ben came in.
'Here it comes', I thought.
After stashing his stuff Ben walked over to me. I was sitting on my bed; he grabbed me by the throat and punched me in the face.
I cannot remember the words he said. I knew I was having the verbal stripping down of my life. I knew my nose was broken again, and in that moment all I wanted to do was stand up a beat the shit out of Ben.
I nevertheless stayed still, hands at my side, even though it felt cowardly to just 'take it'. Inside my head a now very small voice told me that if I
fought back I'd be gone. Again a resolve not to let the guys down took hold. I clung to this like a drowning man to a life vest; it was all I had left. Even Ben, my new tormentor, I didn't want to let down.
Ben released me and told me to 'clean myself up'. I stood without a word and grabbed a towel out of my locker. I walked out of the room and headed down the corridor, the battle in my head continuing.
"Damn, got your nose busted again", a voice exclaimed.
"Fuck off and die", I spat out. I have no idea who this person was. I didn't register them in my vision.
In the washroom I filled a sink with water. Putting a thumb on either side of my nose I popped it in what felt like a straight line. I didn't look in the mirror; I didn't want to see the look in my own eyes, so disgusted I was with myself.
Right there and then, for the only time in my life, if there had been a way to 'end' it all I would have taken it. After all I'd seen and experienced, this was my lowest point.
I felt I was a failure to myself and my regiment. I was / I was not to blame. I did my job to the best of my ability and to the required standard / I was useless! Backwards and forwards, guilt and rage. Could I have done more? Should I have done less?
At some point I went back to my room. The TV was on. Terry and Ben were sitting in the two chairs quietly watching it. Chris, still sitting on his bed, was eating snacks he'd bought from the NAFFI.
Ben offered me a lolly out of a bag of sweets he was eating. I didn't feel like one but saw this as a peace offering so all appeared to be back to normal. I took one.
-//-
Soon the routine of active service took over and the troubles in my mind were pushed into the background or so I thought. I didn't know it at that time but I was talking less and less. I now also hated the look in my eyes and avoided mirrors and getting my picture taken.
I had to dig deep. Barriers were erected. I learnt to survive in my own private hell, that was all, and it was enough. I worked to live, burying myself in the task at hand.
In reality I had sunk to the lowest point of my life, a very short life at that stage.
I was still in Belfast when at the end of June a second letter arrived. Major P D McEvoy again the author.
I had never seen him, never had a call from he or anyone else asking how I was. Like I said earlier, I had not had any further medical attention since 'escaping' Musgrave Park Hospital. No unit Medical Officer had asked to see me and, in truth, nor had I sought anyone out.
So when the letter asked me to sign the certificate at its foot "if I thought I had recovered as much as I was going to from my injury", I was a little stunned. Though not as much as I was when I read a paragraph further on. This asked "Are you still in pain or discomfort? Do you re-live the incident? Has your involvement in the incident or your injury interfered with your social and domestic activities?"
How the hell was I supposed to answer that? If I was honest I thought I'd be 'sectioned' if I said what was going on in my head. If I was really honest, I didn't want to deal with what was going on in my head. Last of all, I was still on active duty. I hadn't yet experienced and therefore didn't know if the injury would interfere with my 'social and domestic activities'!
Just wanting it over and done with, I signed and that was that.
With body and mind shored up as best as I was able I got on with 'living'. But the thin veil of humanity with which I was deluding myself kept on getting holes poked through it.
Eventually the time would come when silly petty things would send me tumbling inside myself. These did not happen while still in Belfast but some happened soon after and others much later on. All of them would start with a sense of self-worthlessness and would end with an inner argument about what I could have done differently. I had no worse critic or enemy than myself.
Who was the Robinson's Jam Man now? Was the colour now draining out of my face, in panic at what I was becoming? Had the 'original' struck again with one final 'blow'?
One thing which put me into one of these spins had its origins in a company photograph taken outside North Howard Street Mill. All the 'occupants' of the mill posed for a photograph, and as we filed back inside our names were taken by the Regimental Sergeant Major and a few members of the Battalion HQ staff. The names taken down would appear printed at the bottom of the picture in a mimic of where we appeared on the picture above.
A comment was made about my beret and that I had to get a new one. The chance of getting any new kit was next to nil and I ended up getting the beret of someone who was hospitalised and would not be coming back, (I think it was 'Smiler' Howarth's.)
By the time the picture was produced we were all back in Germany the tour in Northern Ireland over. C Company had been split up and I was back with my mates in Milan Platoon. Reading the 'standing orders' one afternoon in the Support Company HQ, I was informed of two things: that the picture taken was ready for people to order, and that our 'medals' had arrived.
Excitement went through me as I went in search of a copy of the picture, wanting to check it out. As soon as I found one I knew exactly where I had been positioned and located myself, 'ugly prick', I thought!
For a reason I cannot explain I then looked for my name.
It wasn't there.
I looked again and again, reading through the whole list. My name was missing. Upon mentioning this I was told "that it was too late to change". It felt to me at that time as if this had been done on purpose.
A fear of being forgotten took hold. Years later would people looking at this picture remember I was there? I said I didn't want a picture not even one on which the names were not printed.
A white cardboard box was then passed to me; with some other people in the office at the same time each receiving one of their own. A little white box with a piece of paper stating my name and regimental number, all held together like everyone else's with an elastic band.
I opened my box and found my medal, General Service Medal 1962 with clasp Northern Ireland. What is now my most treasured possession was handed out in a plain cardboard box! No pomp and circumstance, no ceremony. No pinning medals to chests. We all received our medals like it was an embarrassment.
I knew it was the same for everyone, but, like the picture, I took it
personally. The small stuff was really gnawing away at me and would continue to
do so throughout the following years.
Here is the picture I mention above. There was an option to buy a picture without names, but in my stubbornness I didn't buy anything. This copy I downloaded from the QLR's Facebook page. I look at all these young faces pictured from the Cooks to the Dog Handlers and of course C Company 1 QLR and wonder where have all the years gone. Loyally You All Served.
A view across to Divis Flats.
