ONWARDS TO EDINBURGH
They took me to Edinburgh Castle. I was shown to a room with a huge video screen on one wall and introduced to my legal representative.
‘Hi Matthew, my name is Stuart Harvey and I will be representing you during this conference call. My only advice is to let me do the talking.’
The video screen was filled with an elderly and stern looking judge, spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, momentarily distracted as a female assistance handed him a piece of paper.
With a nod of his head in my direction, he continued,
‘In light of the circumstances before me, I deem you a danger to the public and authorise you to be detained at the army’s discretion. Do you have anything to add?’
The solicitor answered on my behalf.
‘No, Your Honour.’
And as quick as it begun, it ended.
I turned to Stuart and said, ‘Look, I need you to get this press release out to the media. The local and national newspapers, TV stations and radio. OK?’ I handed him my paperwork. ‘I need you to get my story out fast. I need you to publicise our tale. Please take this and do as I ask, please.’ I said again, prompting him to take my papers.
He said he’d do what he could, but did nothing.
From Edinburgh Castle, I was taken to the 1st Light Infantry’s army base a few miles down the road. Upon my arrival it was explained I’d be sent back to my regiment in Germany the following day.
I’m not going back to Germany, I thought. There was absolutely no way I could face the shame and embarrassment. I couldn’t bear the prospect of looking into the eyes of my colleagues having gone AWOL.
It was procedure to see the medical officer as part of my welcome to the base.
‘Pleased to meet you, Corporal Taylor.’
‘And you, Sir.’
‘I understand you’ve been through quite an experience, tell me all about it.’
I thought this would be a good opportunity to play the ‘mental’ card, anything to stop me from being sent back to Germany.
‘I just lost it, Sir. I heard voices in my head to do it.’
‘Oh really, and do you hear voices now,’ he replied.
‘Yes all the time, it’s like having my own personal devil sitting on my shoulder telling me what to do. Oh, excuse me, Sir,’ I said before looking over my shoulder. ‘Now’s not a good time, I’m having a chat with a medical officer,’ I said to thin air, before turning my attention back.
I suppose the grin spread across my face convinced him I was pulling his chain. I was never good at lying!
‘You aren’t mad, Corporal Taylor, so it’s no use trying to convince me otherwise.’
I had played the ‘mental card’ and it hadn’t worked, but I had one more trick up my sleeve, which I was planning to use later that day. Once back in the cell I had time to mull it over. A couple of hours passed before the door was opened.
‘OK, Corporal Taylor, dinner-time, get yourself together and follow me,’ said a guard.
‘I’m not coming,’ I replied.
‘What? Of course you are. Come on,’ he said gesturing with his hand for me to follow.
‘I’m on hunger strike.’
He simply shrugged his shoulders. ‘Hey, if you don’t want to eat that’s fine with me, but I’m the one who has to fill out the paperwork,’ he complained.
As with all guardrooms throughout the army, there was a ‘Daily Occurrence Book’, which had to be filled out chronicling every single incident. Hunger strike was certainly an incident to be recorded.
Mostly, I spent my time in the guardroom with the other soldier’s, which I preferred to staying in my cell alone. I enjoyed their company and laughed at their stories and jokes, but when breakfast, lunch or dinner approached, the conversation would turn sour.
‘So, Taylor, are you going eat?’
‘No,’ I’d reply.
On the third day of my hunger strike, I had a visit by the sergeant.
‘Listen Son, I like you, but I’m going to give you a choice, and one choice only. You can follow me now and have breakfast, or you can come with me out to the yard and my boys will kick the fucking shit out of you.’
‘In that case sergeant, I’d like to follow you and have breakfast.’ It was an easy decision to make. I was starving.
My hunger strike was over and to top it off an officer visited me to say I wouldn’t have to go back to Germany. Instead, I was to be taken to the Army’s Military Correction Centre (MCTC) in Colchester, where I would be held until my court martial. I got onto a plane and was flown to Stansted Airport in Essex, where I was driven without haste to the MCTC, otherwise known in army circles as the Glasshouse (because of its glass lantern roof.) I was taken to C wing with a dread in my heart that this was going to be the worst experience of my life. What concerned me most was that I was hundreds of miles away from my mum, with no idea when I’d get back to see her. My future wasn’t in my hands; it was at the mercy of the army.
On arrival at the Glasshouse, I was escorted into the staff tearoom and told to sit down. The guard on duty and my escort went out of the room and left me alone sitting on a chair. Within ear shot, I heard my escort say,
‘He’s been a complete prick. He hasn’t cooperated, he’s been up his own arse and he’s shown no respect. You’d better watch him.’
The escort said his goodbye to the guard and I never saw him again. I braced myself as the guard walked back into the room.
‘My name is Staff Hodges, and we are all ex Royal Military Policemen here. The first rule is when you speak to any guard you say ‘Staff’ at the start and end of every sentence. Now, are you going to cause us trouble?’
‘Staff, no Staff,’ I replied.
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