It’s hard to get out of the British Army
Escape From Waterloo Platoon
I never really got along well with the army.
I had dog hairs on my uniform even though I hadn’t lived with a dog for over a year.
The Sergeant Major wasn’t impressed by that. Nor by the fact that I was trying to leave the British Army. He was a fearsome prick of a man with a slick black moustache that probably had a rank of its own.
Now he came at me like a software salesman. He took off his hat, forced a smile like a constipated man forces a shit, and he talked to me about my future in the British Army as if he was trying to sell me the latest version of Oracle. He showed me pictures of him — half-naked — water-skiing to work in Belize. He expected me to get my cock blown off in Northern Ireland so I could fucking water ski to work. I’d rather catch the bus.
The gruff bastard ordered me to come back and see him with my decision the next day. Even then, I was a decent actor and made out like he had got me thinking. He hadn’t. It was week nine of infantry school, and this was my last god damn chance to get out.
Sadly, I missed the part where he mentioned coming to see him at 7 am sharp, and I slept the fuck in. He burst into my dorm like a one-person SWAT team, snarling and slobbering like a fucking Hungarian Horntail. Saliva leapt from his mouth in slow motion and soaked the end of my bed. I stood to attention in my green underpants like a proper bellend and muttered that I wanted out with tears in my eyes.
Later that day, I filled out some paperwork and was escorted through the barracks by a corporal who looked and spoke like John Cleese.
I never understood why everyone in the army marched everywhere like proper cocks. They will tell you it’s for discipline, like most things you are supposed to learn in basic training. But for me, six months into the army, I was less disciplined than ever.
I had completed my first twelve weeks of basic in Scotland at Glencourse Barracks near Edinburgh. During those twelve weeks, I earned the nickname ‘Jailbird’ because I was in jail more than fucking Tim Allen. But the jail I’m talking about lasted around forty-five minutes. During that time, they stick you in a room with the radiators cranked up high, and they make you do push-ups and sit-ups and mark time, aka run on the spot where your knees have to touch the high stick, or you get fucking whacked with it. All this was hosted by ‘Big Ginj’, a massive Scotsman with big fucking knees and fists. After forty-five minutes, you were always sure you would never fuck up again.
But I did, constantly. I was always in there.
We marched past the assault course, where my former platoon mates stared at me from the midst of their torturous PT session.
Their looks were a mixture of envy and disappointment, but I didn’t give a fuck. John Cleese was looking the other way, so I threw them my grandest queen wave, followed by the middle-finger salute.
We marched past rugby fields and athletic fields, then through a grassy area allocated for field training. We seemed to march forever. Finally, we arrived at a worn aircraft hangar in the furthest corner of the barracks.
Cleese smacked his wooden stick into the ground and then banged on the iron door three times like we were at some Zen monastery. A bolt unlocked, and the door opened a crack. The place reeked of cigars and weed, which was odd because we were on a military base. A man stood with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, sporting an afro and a beard. He looked like Elias in Platoon — half hippy, half soldier.
“Yes?” he said as the ash fell from his cigarette and hit the ground. My escort’s eyes followed the ash to the ground and then back up to the man’s face. He reached out and took the cigarette from the hippy soldier’s mouth, placed it in his own, leaned back against the hangar door, and took a long drag.
“This is yer new bloke”, he announced casually before spinning around and taking off. The hippy soldier nodded, opened the door further and looked me up and down.
“Yer better fucking come in then,” he said.
I had heard of Waterloo Platoon before. It was where soldiers went when they were trying to get out of the army. The boys in my platoon would sing ‘Waterloo, couldn’t get out if you wanted to’ like the Abba song. It was notoriously hard to leave the British Army.
Meeting people in the army is like a cunt-lottery
So I was relieved when the hippy soldier put one hand on my back and one hand on his chest and told me his name was Kingy.
I stared inside the hangar at a bunch of absolute misfits in military uniforms. There was a tall, Greek-looking man, bare-chested, covered in tattoos. As he grinned at me through demolished teeth, Kingy introduced him as Nick. Then he went around introducing each person. There was Andy, a well-built man who looked like he could crush you with one hand. He was about the only one who was clean-shaven with short hair. The rest could be mistaken for a band at Woodstock.
Terry Daniels was the most formal.
“This is Terry Daniels”, Kingy announced.
Terry Daniels stepped forward and held out his hand for shaking.
“Terry Daniels”, he announced as if Kingy hadn’t already introduced him.
There was ‘Babe’ Tanner. I always assumed so named due to his perfect good looks, although I never asked. There was ‘Fucknuts’, who seemed amazingly comfortable with his unfortunate name.
Glen’ Tabby’ Taylor had a great scar across his face. He looked like he was far too old to be a recruit in the military. He and ‘Edge’ — so named for his guitar abilities — were not trainees like the rest but experienced soldiers. Tabby’s scar, I found out later, came during his first tour of Northern Ireland.
A couple of the guys lit up spliffs, filling the place with the natural aroma of a skunk with B.O. Kingy showed me my bed right down the end.
“So.” Kingy began, sitting opposite me on my bed. “You had enough then, have ya?”
“I’m just fucking tired, Mate”, I explained.
“I get it Mate”. Kingy shuffled around in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled notebook. “I first joined the army in May 1994,” he said, showing me a picture of his passing out parade. “I first applied for discharge in September that year, and they stuck me in this place.”
It was July 1995. I started working out the months on my fingers and realised Kingy had been trying to get out of the army for around nine months. Kingy nodded
“All of these boys are the fucking same”, he squinted and pointed over at Tabby Taylor. “That poor fucker has been here for almost two fucking years. What do you think about that?”
At first, I thought he must have been joking. But I recalled the Abba song again and wondered if the rumours were true. If they were, it was no surprise these guys were growing their hair and smoking weed in a far corner of the barracks. Kingy shook his head and lit up a cigarette.
I started to unpack my stuff. I had a ton of questions.
“Can I just ask,” I said, “how can you get away with long hair and the smoking an’ all that?”
Kingy stretched his face out and then shook it.
“You know what the crazy thing is? The army knows, and they don’t give a fuck. They dump us here, so we are out of the way. We do a bit of guard duty and a bit of cleaning. They leave us alone, and we leave them alone. They keep getting their allocated budget for us, and we keep getting our wages. Everyone wins, to a degree. Only no one wants to fucking be here.”
I had heard whispers about the legend of Waterloo Platoon for a while, but I still couldn’t help being shocked. The Sergeant Major had told me it wouldn’t be difficult if I chose to leave.
“But Warrant Officer Barron said the transition would be easy if I wanna leave.”
Terry Daniels piped up.
“That old miserable cunt. Did he show the picture of him water-skiing to work in Belize? What a prick. Every fucker in this room has seen that fucking photo. Every one of us wants to skin that prick for keeping us here.”
It was true. The prick had done me over. Now he had me in the infamous Waterloo platoon to keep his budget afloat for the next two years.
Over the next two months, I grew my hair like the boys.
I grew a spindly beard and started smoking weed. I would do guard duty at night with Kingy. We would patrol the perimeter, smoking little joints and shining lights in the faces of civilians shouting, ‘Halt, who goes there?’ and pissing ourselves laughing. Friday night was the best. Beautiful girls dolled up in earrings and high heels would trot along on the other side of the fence. Kingy would always proposition them. Occasionally it would work and he would get a phone number. Once, he got a blow job through the fence.
One day as I sat trimming my thin beard and listening to the Rolling Stones, there came a knock on the hangar door. Terry Daniels flicked off the music, and Kingy opened the door in his usual manner.
“Yes?” he said.
There were a few muttered voices, and then Kingy took some papers and closed the door. He walked over to my bed.
“Well, my Son, it looks like your number is up,” he said. Then he threw the papers at me and sat on his bed, lighting a cigarette. They were my release papers. After just two months in Waterloo Platoon, they were letting me go. I looked up at the boys sitting around, staring with envy at my papers. Kingy took a long drag on his cigarette.
“Charlie reckons it’s cos yer only sixteen. They cant hold yer like the rest of us.”
I wanted to free them all, the poor bastards.
I stood in the Sergeant Major’s office again that afternoon, waiting for my final exit interview.
Everything was quiet. I knew that his clunky size twelves would give away his arrival well in advance. I looked across to the picture of him water-skiing in Belize. Before I could think, I grabbed the picture off the wall and stuffed it into my bag. As I was zipping it up, I heard the clunk of Warrant Officer Barron’s feet, and I stood to attention. He entered the room and sat down at his desk.
“Let’s make this quick,” he said.
A series of routine questions followed, which took around five minutes. By the end, I was sweating profusely, and my heart was banging out of my chest. The Sergeant Major stood up.
“Good Luck Son,” he said and marched out of the room.
I have never marched as fast as I did that day. I legged it round the parade ground and out of the front gate. Once I hit the street, I sprinted until I hit the train station. Once on the train, I pulled out the Belize photograph, stared at it for a moment and laughed out loud.
“What you laughing at?” the train conductor asked.
“Nothing,” I said, shoving the photograph back into my bag and showing him my ticket.
About two weeks later, I got a letter from Kingy detailing how the Sergeant Major’s prized Belize water-skiing picture had gone missing. I sent back a copy of Kingy’s favourite book, ‘Where Eagles Dare’, with the photo in it.
Kingy told me later that it was the most significant moment in the history of Waterloo Platoon.
