The Exit Club: Book 2: Bad Boys

by Shaun Clarke

  For this reason, when the war ended and he was demobbed, he and his best friend, Tone Williams, also demobbed, after going into business together, had restlessly started tackling different sports, particularly sailing and mountain-climbing, before desperately enlisting in the TA, mainly to get them away from home on a regular basis. Neither had found in marriage or fatherhood what it was they most needed: the excitement of danger. Lesley knew this and feared it.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if I felt closer to you,’ she said, studying her clasped hands and trying to hold her emotions in check as she had done for so long, ‘but you’re never quite here, your thoughts are always somewhere else, and I feel that I’m being cut out of your life, that I no longer exist for you. That’s hard to take, Marty.’

  He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the mantelpiece, then sighed forlornly, exhaling the last of the smoke as he glanced at the front door, wanting to leave.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ he lied. ‘You’re exaggerating the situation. We’re not all that different from other couples. Our problems aren’t that uncommon.’

  ‘I know, Marty. But that doesn’t make them any better. Hundreds of couples who got married during the war are queuing up for divorce. I don’t want that to happen tous. I’m frightened of that.’

  ‘It won’t happen,’ Marty said. ‘We’re just going through a bad patch. We have a good home, two healthy kids, and a pretty nice life in general. I like to get out of the house, I like to do things. You like to look after the house and kids, which means our problems are minor. Things will gradually work themselves out. Don’t worry about it.’

  Now it was Lesley’s turn to sigh. ‘I’ll try not. I just don’t want our different interests to drive us apart.’

  ‘They won’t,’ Marty said without conviction.

  He leaned down to kiss the top of her head, filling up with guilt and concern when he saw her wet eyes. She still loved him, he realized as he left the house, and that made it more difficult. The sun was shining over the houses of Weybridge and that made him feel better.

  Having a pint in the pleasantly crowded pub in the West End of London, waiting for Tone to arrive, Marty thought of Lesley and the kids back in the house in Weybridge and realized that he had come a long way in a relatively short time.

  Mere weeks after his demob, when he had been back in his dad’s construction business feeling distinctly bored, he had read that many local councils were seeking state aid to ease the chronic housing shortage caused by the German air-raids. One such plan was for the purchasing of prefabricated homes for demobilized servicemen and bombed-out families. The ‘prefabs’ were steel-built, single-storey dwellings that could be erected in a few hours by a small number of workmen and half a million of them were to be built by the motor industry. Within weeks, Marty had obtained contracts with various manufacturers and was constructing prefabs all over the North London area. Delighted to have a challenge, he threw himself into the work with all the enthusiasm he had lost since being demobbed. He was also enthusiastic because the work, which was plentiful, kept him away from home a lot and entailed travels to many areas outside London.

  Pregnant with their first child, Lesley sometimes complained about his constant working, but as the money was finally pouring in, enabling her to buy luxuries she could not have afforded before, and, as she put it, also enabling her to prepare properly for the forthcoming baby, she was more often pleased than displeased.

  Within a year, Marty had a healthy bank account and was able to purchase a proper home for Lesley and the expected child. Familiar with the property market, he soon found the detached house in Weybridge. Lesley, with her middle-class pretensions, was thrilled to move into it. A few weeks after the move, their first child, John, was born and Marty was almost as pleased as Lesley.

  Almost, but not quite. Thrilled to hold his newborn son in his arms, he initially behaved like many fathers, showering affection on the child, watching his every move intently and subconsciously mapping out his future. That, however, did not last too long. Within weeks, the baby’s constant crying had encouraged Marty to get out of the house more often; thus, as Lesley settled in to being a devoted mother, he began spending more time at his work, running the business side of it while Tone Williams, whom he had hired in the first flush of his success, supervised the actual construction of the prefabs.

  The money kept rolling in and Marty enjoyed himself, not least because he was back in a man’s world, dealing with level-headed businessmen, builders, plumbers, electricians and hard-drinking, mainly Irish, labourers. Understanding that he felt more comfortable with these men that he did at home, he frequently socialized with them, often joining them for drinks after work and even meeting them at weekends to go to ‘the dogs’ or the racetrack. This did not thrill his wife.

  During that time of growing unease, Lesley gave birth to their second child, Kay, and though Marty was again delighted, he still found himself looking for any excuse to get out of the house. He realized, then, that he enjoyed his work because it took him from one location to another and led to many evenings and weekends of rough-and-ready fun. To his surprise, shortly after Kay was born, when Lesley was even more involved in being a mother, he had found himself thinking increasingly about his days with L Detachment, SAS, and yearning to do something just as exciting.

  By this time, Tone was having the same problem. Married himself and the father of three children, he confessed to Marty that he had never recovered from the excitements of the war and was desperately bored in Civvy Street. Coming from Wales and knowing the territory, it was he who had suggested that he and Marty take up some challenging sports, including sailing and mountain-climbing. This they had done for the next couple of years, sailing around most of the English coast and climbing the soaring, freezing slopes of the Brecon Beacons, an imposing and dangerous mountain range in South Wales. But when even that became too routine, Tone suggested the Territorial Army.

  ‘I’ve just heard that a TA unit’s been raised at Aldershot,’ he told Marty as they sat together near the summit of the Pen-y-Fan, the highest mountain in the Brecon Beacons, having a lunch of ‘wads’ and hot tea laced with whiskey. ‘I think we should join it. What say you, mate?’

  ‘I agree,’ Marty said. Already seeing so little of him, Lesley had been outraged when she learned what he was planning. Nevertheless, he and Tone had enlisted in the TA and were childishly thrilled to be back in uniform. The company had a drill every Thursday, weekend exercises every three weeks, and a two-week camp once a year. Though all of this made life with Lesley more difficult, Marty could not resist it, feeling that it filled a gap and only surprised that he still wasn’t content, that he still missed the regular army. Lesley knew that as well.

  Looking up from his pint, Marty watched Tone enter the pub, also wearing his TA uniform, to make his way around the other smoke-wreathed customers until he reached the table.

  ‘Your glass is nearly empty,’ he said. ‘I suppose you want another one?’

  ‘Bloody right,’ Marty replied.

  Grinning, Tone went to the bar to order two pints. Lean and fit, with a face scarred from the coal mines and a hazel-eyed, cynical gaze, he now had the confidence that comes from success and the restlessness of a man in constant need of adventure. The former came from his work in the once-thriving prefab business; the latter had been picked up in North Africa. He and Marty had that in common and were bonded by it.

  ‘So what’s new?’ Marty asked when his friend had brought the drinks and was facing him across the brass-topped table.

  Tone shrugged, had a good swallow of his ale, then put the glass down. ‘Not much since I saw you yesterday,’ he said. ‘I picked up my paycheck, went home to the missus and kids, had a couple of drinks, went to bed and spent all day, this being Saturday, trying to be a good daddy. I’m bloody bored, I can tell you. I can’t take Civvy Street.’

  ‘Neither can I, mate.’

  ‘I’m so bored, I’ve actually
thought of re-enlisting. I really have, Marty. The thought crosses my mind a lot. I mean, it’s 1951, six years since we were demobbed, and yet I feel even less settled now than I was way back then. I keep thinking about L Detachment and I know what I’m missing.’

  ‘You could go back to the coal mines,’ Marty kidded him.

  ‘No way,’ Tone responded indignantly. ‘I fought like shit to get out of the coal mines and I’m not going back. I’d rather work in your dad’s construction business than do that – but it’s just not enough. When I think of the times we had with the SAS, I know why I’m bored now.’

  ‘A hell of a regiment,’ Marty said, ‘but it no longer exists.’

  ‘Right,’ Tone said. ‘Those bastards.’

  He was referring to the fact that regardless of the tremendous work the SAS had done during the war, it had been disbanded in 1945. Indeed, after the war Marty had learned from former comrades just how much his fellow SAS men, officers and other ranks, had done in his absence, even when some of them were also prisoners-of-war.

  Captured with Marty and Tone, Bulldog Bellamy had been incarcerated in a POW camp deep in Italy from where he had made many escape attempts, none of which were successful, though all had given the Italians a lot to think about. Captured at the same time, Captain Kearney, after repeated attempts to escape from the officers’ POW camp in Gavi, Italy, was transferred to the ‘escape proof’ Colditz Castle, Saxony, deep in the very heart of Nazi Germany. Even there, the Allied officers termed ‘bad boys’ by the Germans because of their repeated attempts to escape, continued with their activities, showing remarkable ingenuity by forging German identification papers and other official documents, making German uniforms and civilian clothing out of stolen rags, digging tunnels under the very noses of the German guards in a remarkable number of different ways, abseiling down the walls with ropes made from knotted bed sheets and pieces of cord stolen over many months, even constructing a piloted glider in secret in an attempt to fly over the walls of the castle. This plan had been stopped by the ending of the war.

  Major Stirling was captured in 1943, during Operation Torch in Tunisia, and after escaping four times from Gavi prison camp had also been transferred to Colditz Castle. There, with the support of Paddy Kearney, he spent the rest of the war years coordinating the black-market activities of the other prisoners as part of an ingenious intelligence-gathering operations.

  Meanwhile, his brother, Lieutenant-Colonel William Stirling, then with the British First Army, had formed 2 SAS and, with the Special Raiding Squadron (SRS) – which was 1 SAS temporarily renamed – performed invaluable work in the Allied capture of Sicily. The SAS then went on to aid the Allied advance in Europe by conducting a series of daring night raids in France, often working with the Maquis: Frenchmen who lived in the forests and conducted sabotage missions behind enemy lines. The brigade was also used extensively in Sicily, Holland, Belgium and Germany. During the closing months of the war those particular SAS raids were so successful that Hitler personally ordered that all SAS men captured should be tortured and then summarily executed. Nevertheless, regardless of this great work, the regiment was officially disbanded at the end of the war.

  ‘The thing about being with L Detachment,’ Marty said, feeling his anger stirring, ‘is that we really believed in what we were fighting for, we took pride in doing a good job, and we were willing to risk our lives for what we thought was a just cause. Those values don’t exist in Civvy Street. No values at all, really. Most of the civilians just go on from one bloody day to the next, hoping to make a bob or two, and only concerned that they’ve got a decent pension plan. In L Detachment, every day was a brand-new day in the sense that it was always unpredictable. Now everything’s bloody predictable; we’re just drifting along. No wonder you feel like reenlisting, Tone. I’ve thought about it myself.’

  ‘So why don’t we do it?’ Tone asked.

  ‘Because it wouldn’t be like it was. There’s no real war to fight. That Suez Canal business will be over in no time, so we’d just end up helping the Yanks in Korea or standing guard duty in Berlin. Bloody boring, mate. No, thanks.’

  ‘So why are you in the TA?’ Tone asked him.

  Marty shrugged. ‘Why are you?’

  ‘If I wasn’t in the TA,’ Tone explained without irony, ‘I’d probably be out robbing banks. That or something just as bad and dangerous. You know what I mean, mate?’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean. I’m starting to feel that way myself. No matter how much I might care for Lesley and the kids, when I’m at home with them I often feel that I’m about to explode. That’s why I’m in the TA.’

  ‘It has its own rewards,’ Tone said with a grin, ‘and you’re going to get one this evening.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  Tone’s grin became wicked. It was his ‘bad boy’ grin. ‘Finish off your pint and let’s get to Aldershot. There’s a commando officer coming this evening to give us a lecture on standard operating procedures. We can’t afford to miss it.’

  ‘Why are you so excited about commando SOPs?’ Marty asked when he had finished his pint and was getting to his feet. ‘It sounds boring to me.’

  ‘You won’t be bored when you hear who’s giving the lecture,’ Tone said, still grinning wickedly.

  ‘Oh? Who’s that?’ Marty asked.

  ‘Captain Paddy Kearney,’ Tone told him. ‘Are you still bored, my friend?’

  ‘Hell, no!’ Marty exclaimed.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Well, well, what a pleasant surprise!’ Paddy Kearney said chirpily when he had completed his lecture and joined Marty and Tone at the crowded, noisy TA bar. Kearney had lost neither his rugby player’s physique nor his dark Irish good looks. His green eyes, Marty noticed, were as bright as ever when he flashed his mischievous grin. ‘I recognized you immediately, of course, when I scanned all the eager faces seated before me. Nice to know you survived. So which one of you is going to buy me a drink? A large whiskey on ice, thanks.’

  Marty did the honours and was pleased to hand the drink to the man he admired more than any other. ‘Real good to see you, boss. I often wondered what had happened to you after the war and it’s good to know you’re still in the service.’

  ‘Cheers!’ Kearney said, raising his glass, then he swallowed a good mouthful of the whiskey. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, lowering his glass and smiling at each of them in turn. ‘Still in. RTU’d to Number 8 Commando the minute I got out of Colditz. Not that it made any difference, since L Detachment was already being disbanded.’

  ‘I thought that was a bloody disgrace, boss.’ ‘So did I. Damned shame, if you ask me. Naturally it was a decision taken by the Gaberdine Swine of the General Staff, who seemed to think that with the ending of the war there was no proper role for us. Of course, Major Stirling, the minute he returned from Colditz, was all for using the regiment in the Far East. Wanted to use us in northern China and make attacks on Manchurian railways, cutting off supplies to the Japs. Then, with Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the war abruptly ended. When the regiments returned from Norway, they were deemed to be of no further use and promptly disbanded. Pretty rotten, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tone said, nodding affirmatively before tilting his glass of bitter to his lips.

  Kearney chuckled, shaking his head from side to side in rueful recollection. ‘The last I recall of you two, you were like ghosts in the swirling sand of that plain outside Benghazi, raising your hands above your heads and being led off by German troops. Ended up in a POW camp, did you?’

  Marty nodded affirmatively. ‘Yep. In Augsburg, Germany. It wasn’t all that bad, though. The worst things, as I recall, were the cold, the general shortage of food, and the bloody boredom. But all in all, the Krauts treated us decently.’

  ‘The war in North Africa was a gentleman’s war,’ Kearney said. ‘Maybe the last of its kind. Each side treated the other with respect. When you think of what the Nazis were up to in Europe, you realize just how lucky we were to be
captured by Rommel’s Afrika Korps. Every time I think of how those bastards in the Gestapo cold-bloodedly massacred thirty-two SAS prisoners outside the camp at Gaggenau… Well…’ He shook his head sadly from side to side. ‘What can you say?’

  Neither Marty nor Tone said anything, both still rendered uncomfortable by the thought of that notorious incident.

  Kearney put his glass down and lit a Player’s cigarette. He inhaled, glanced along the crowded bar, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke. ‘So,’ he said, smiling brightly again, ‘you had it okay in your own POW camp?’

  ‘We were treated fairly,’ Marty said. ‘Even when we tried to escape and were recaptured, the worst punishment was a month in solitary.’

  ‘That does indeed seem fair enough,’ Kearney said. ‘And did you try that on often?’

  ‘Not as often as you lot at Colditz,’ Tone replied. ‘But we had a good go. Have you heard anything more about Major Stirling?’ he asked, not wishing to recall the many unsuccessful escape attempts he also had made. ‘I hear he’s left the service altogether and is living overseas now. Any truth in that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kearney said. ‘Once back in England, he was all set to pick up the reins of the SAS, but by that time the regiment was under the overall command of Brigadier Mike Calvert, who’d formerly headed the Chindits operating deep behind Japanese lines in Burma– ’

  ‘Mad Mike,’ Marty interjected, using the nickname for the legendary officer and guerrilla fighter.

  ‘Correct,’ Kearney said. ‘Anyway, by this time the men of the SAS had been scattered all over the place, with some operating in small raiding parties in France, others conducting mopping-up operations in Germany, and First and Second regiments in Norway, to disarm over three hundred thousand Germans. And, of course, by that time there were also two French SAS regiments and a Belgian regiment that was almost the same size as two normal ones. But even worse than this scattering of the SAS was the fact that Stirling’s brother, Lieutenant-Colonel William Stirling, who had raised 2 SAS, refused to let his men be used in ways that he felt were improper. For that reason, he was constantly quarrelling with his superiors. He finally exploded on the eve of D-Day, when Supreme HQ, Allied Expeditionary Force, insisted on using the SAS behind the beaches, instead of letting them attack strategic targets behind enemy lines. William Stirling resigned and 2 SAS was taken over by LieutenantColonel Brian Franks, who proved to be an admirable commander. Naturally, our very own David Stirling, the legendary Phantom Major, by now a lieutenantcolonel, was thoroughly disgusted by all this, but still planned to use the regiments against the Japs. Then the bombs fell on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and that was the end of it. The War Office, in its misguided wisdom, decided to disband the SAS as no longer relevant and the regiments were paraded for the last time, under Mad Mike, in October of 1945. Even more disgusted, David Stirling retired to his home in Scotland.’