AMSTERDAM
I found myself, in those long tedious days at the Glasshouse, thinking back on how I’d ended up here. I replayed the story over and over in my mind.
I’d gone to Amsterdam with two work colleagues, Fitz and Paddy, and bought five cannabis joints to send home to my mum. We went there on a Friday and returned on the Sunday. We were three army buddies out on the town, and our only agenda had been three days of unadulterated, adult fun. On the Thursday before, I spoke to my Mum over the phone.
‘Hi Mum, I’m going to Amsterdam for a few days.’
‘Oh, can you get me some cannabis please,’ she asked.
I almost dropped the phone.
‘You’ve got to be kidding; I’m a Policeman for God’s sake.’
Mum, at that time, was languishing in a nursing home in Portslade near Brighton. She had been using cannabis as a medicinal remedy for many years to alleviate her pain and I didn’t blame her for asking. That simple telephone conversation changed my life forever, a phone call with lasting implications still being felt today.
I hadn’t been to Amsterdam before, and even though I never smoked cannabis, or indeed taken any drug of any description while I was serving in the army, I was interested in finding out how the legalisation of cannabis worked.
On the last day of our visit while walking back to the car, I said to Fitz. ‘I’ll just be a moment. I want to get a memento for my mum. I’ll catch up with you.’
I left my mates and walked along a narrow street until I came across a coffee shop. With a neon light shaped as a marijuana plant, I knew it was the type of shop I wanted. I couldn’t see through the smoke at first, then slowly I made out some people sitting around small tables, smoking, drinking coffee, and at the back I could just make out a short counter. I made my way over and marvelled at the selection of drugs available. What seemed like a hundred and one packages were laid out under the glass display case; small plastic bags holding lumps and buds of Black Widow, White Haze, Columbian Black and so much more. There were joints, pipes, bongs, space cakes, everything you’d need to experience the delights of marijuana. Though what caught my attention were the ready rolled joints.
‘Hi, may I have five joints please?’ I asked the assistant who had walked over to me.
‘Yes certainly,’ he said.
In a flash, I had five ready rolled joints placed in a bag and then into my hand. It really was that easy. I caught up with Fitz and Paddy and kept my package secret as we made our way back to our army base in Sennelager Germany.
Once I had some time to myself and with no one around, I got the package from the boot of my car and locked myself in my bedroom. I sat on my bed with the envelope, six cigarette packets and five marijuana joints and considered how I’d do it. Worried about the smell marijuana gives off, I dashed to the kitchen and got a length of tin foil with which I wrapped the joints. Then it was a matter of fitting it all into the envelope. Once I was finished it looked inconspicuous enough. In the past I had sent nearly half a dozen envelopes full of cigarettes to my mum using the Army postal service instead of the German postal service and had never had a problem, so I didn’t fear sending one more package. I knew sending cigarettes back to England was an offence against Army orders of the 1955 Army Act, but it was the thrill that excited me.
Long before joining the army I held the romantic notion that I was living my life on the edge and breaking the rules was all part of the fun. ‘Living dangerously’ was my motto and even though I was a Royal Military Policeman, I wasn’t about to change a habit of a lifetime.
I was back to work early on Monday morning and on the way to the police station I pulled up beside the post box and slipped the package in. More than anything I was relieved to get the package off my hands. As far as I was concerned it was on its way, though I did think to myself that if ever I got caught, my life wouldn’t be worth living.
It was three weeks later on the ninth of June, that the nightmare came true.
Sergeant Major Guest opened the door of the police station. ‘Arh, Corporal Taylor, can you come with me please. SIB wants a chat.’
‘Yes certainly, Sir.’
SIB, the Special Investigation Branch of the Royal Military Police wouldn’t want to speak to me for any other reason, other than for something I shouldn’t have done. It knew what it was about in an instant; sending the drugs and cigarettes to England.
I was led into an office and told to sit at a table while the tapes were unwrapped and the record button pressed. Sergeant Major Guest was in the room as a observer and the person interviewing me was Warrant Officer Tracy Leeson, an attractive woman of forty years, who I had a secret crush on (as did all the other young men of the company), plus Corporal Shane Ellis, a colleague I’d got drunk with the week before.
‘Corporal Taylor of the Royal Military Police?’ asked Tracy Leeson,
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘On Friday the nineteenth of May this year, a package was seized by Customs and Immigration at the post office in Sennelager as it was suspected to contain cigarettes together with another package wrapped in foil. When this package was opened, this foil package, it was found to contain five cigarettes believed to contain herbal Cannabis. I’m going to show you these items now. For the purpose of the tape I am now producing exhibit BM/1 which is a white envelope containing six packets of Raffles cigarettes which totals one hundred and twenty cigarettes, and a small package wrapped in silver foil and brown tape. The addressee is a Miss Taylor, Flat seventeen, Hazel Holt, Chalky Road, Portslade, East Sussex.’
‘Yes,’ I nodded.
‘Okay, so, Corporal Taylor what can you tell me about this package and its contents?’
‘I can’t tell you anything about it.’ I wasn’t about to admit anything. Having conducted a number of these interviews myself I valued the power of denial.
‘You can’t tell me anything at all?’
‘No.’
‘Alright then. Does that address look familiar to you?’
‘Yes it does. It’s my mother’s address in England.’
‘What about the handwriting. Is it your handwriting?’
‘No.’
The interview continued in this manner with Tracy Leeson asking the questions and me denying all knowledge.
‘It all seems very strange doesn’t it. Your mother smokes cannabis, and low and behold a package turns up, that happens to have five cigarettes that we believe contain cannabis, addressed to your mum, with similar handwriting to your own?’
‘It does.’ I nodded.
‘I think it’s you, Corporal Taylor, who sent this package.’
‘I know you do.’
‘Okay, so just to clarify this. You’re denying all knowledge of this package?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ok then, I’m now going to suspend the interview. Do you wish to clarify anything you have said?’
‘No.’
‘Do you wish to add anything?’
‘No.’
The interview was suspended and was informed I would be spoken to at a later date.
After the interview I was taken back to my flat, which I shared with some colleagues, only to witness a search of all my personal belongings as they looked for any signs of drug use. They left after an hour with my diary.
Oh! How the tables had turned. Now I was on the receiving end, and what surprised me most was the look of venom on their faces. No doubt they held the opinion that ‘one of their own had turned bad’, so all they wanted to do was to root out the rotten apple and show no mercy.
A second interview took place on the fourteenth of September 2000. This time, I walked in with a prepared statement.
‘I make this statement knowing that it may be tendered in evidence. The content is true to the best of my knowledge and belief and I fully admit this offence. I prepared the parcel myself and posted it to my mum. I apologise for the time and inconvenience caused by my denial in the last interview. At that time I was shocked by the allegation, and frightened by the seriousness of the charges. My whole career was about to be lost and I just could not face that. I know now that I made the wrong decision, and I am ashamed that I was not honest from the beginning. I do not want to waste anymore time or money of anyone concerned and I want to take full responsibility for my actions. I know that it was wrong, but I wanted to help my mum over and above that. Signed: 25074661, LCPL Taylor, RMP.’
I was informed I would be reported for the unlawful possession of a controlled drug with intent to supply. That afternoon I was marched into the Officer Commander’s Mayor Sally Purnell’s office. The Regimental Sergeant Major knocked on her door for me and announced my arrival.
‘Ma’am, Corporal Taylor is here,’ he said.
‘Send him in, thank you,’ she replied.
‘Left right, left right, left right,’ bellowed the Regimental Sergeant Major as I marched into her office, slammed my right foot down to a halt and saluted her with a sharp whip of my hand.
‘Stand at ease, Corporal Taylor,’ she said.
I was then able to rest and look her in the eye. She was an immaculately dressed woman with her hair in a bun. Without make-up I could see that she was still attractive in a plain-Jane kind of way.
‘Please surrender your weapon and warrant card,’ she said.
As I unclipped my gun holder and placed my gun on the desk and pulled my warrant card out of my pocket, I couldn’t help feeling it was like one of those American cop shows when the hero of the film gets called into the boss’s office and told to surrender his gun and badge.
‘I am suspending you from duty and withdrawing your warrant card. This action is without prejudice to any administrative or disciplinary action that may be taken. This action is necessary as the result of an ongoing SIB investigation against you. For the time being you will be employed in the Regimental Headquarters Quartermasters department based in Herford. You will be under the command of the Quartermaster, Captain Hull, who will be your point of contact should you require any help or advice during your temporary relocation. You are not to return to 110 Pro Coy or any of its detachments unless first authorised to do so personally by either myself or the RSM. This includes any social visit or mess functions. Good luck, Corporal Taylor, and I wish you all the best.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ I replied.
‘That’s all, thank you, Regimental Sergeant Major,’ she said.
‘Stand to attention,’ bellowed the RSM.
I slammed my foot into the stand to position, saluted one final time, spun around on the ball of my foot and marched out of her office with the booms of ‘left right, left right’ echoing in my ears.
My court martial date was booked for May 30th 2001, and because I was no longer in possession of a warrant card and unable to carry a gun, I was essentially a spare part of the Royal Military Police machine, waiting out my time until the court martial. I left the Sennelager army base immediately and drove the fifty miles up the autobahn to Herford, where I’d spend my time until the court martial; a policeman in limbo.
I was allocated a single room only yards from the Quartermaster’s office, where I was to work throughout the coming months. I had many duties, from office clerk to driver. I spent my nights alone in my room, eating pizza, watching TV, and drinking 'Imiglykos Nemea 1998' red wine, my favourite tipple found in the German supermarkets. My time in Herford was depressing; however, it wasn’t all gloom. The good thing was that I was slam-bang in the middle of the hierarchy of the Royal Military Police in Germany. Rubbing shoulders and quaffing tea and cakes with the Commanding Officers of each company became common place. I was socialising with warrant officers and getting drunk with them whenever the opportunity arose. At the end of my so-called twelve month tenure, I had become friends with many high-ranking individuals, memorable above all the others was WO1 SIB Kenneth Semple. Kenny, as I came to know him, was the SIB officer pulling all the strings from his chair in his office.
‘It’s nice to finally meet you, Corporal Taylor. I’ve come to know a lot about you,’ he said to me, stretching out his hand on our first meeting. Over the coming months I came to be his good friend and friend of his family.
The year at Herford flew by and, a month before my court martial, was allowed to go home to take my holiday entitlement. Everyone thought I’d go Absent Without Leave. There was even a sweepstake up and running, though I assured them all there was no way I’d go AWOL. I`d done the crime and I`d do the time. I had no one else to blame for the mess I was in and was man enough to suffer the consequences of my actions; to face them head on with my head held high, there was no way I’d run and hide.
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