My Story, My Life, So Far

By Michael Wall

It tells the story of my upbringing and future life. I hope that any young person in similar situation reads the book and realizes that no matter how difficult life seems to be, there is no need to turn to drugs or crime to make a living. Just take a deep breath, have faith in yourself, and jump into life. Choose your friends wisely and don&rsqu

• Language: English
• Publisher: STAMPA GLOBAL
• Release date: Nov 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781951585334

Michael Wall

Michael Wall has been using Apache Accumulo since September 2010 and has been involved in all types of development from analytic simulation to a large scale news aggregation site. After graduating from the US Air Force Academy in 1994, he served on active duty in the US Air Force. Since leaving the military, Mike has worked as a software engineer for the National Security Agency and other government agencies.

Book preview

My Story,

My Life,

So Far

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M I C H A E L WA L L

Copyright © 2019 by Michael Wall

CONTENTS

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INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

INTRODUCTION

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I was born into a working-class family. My father was a builder bricklayer and I was told at a very early age I was expected to follow him, he had no chance. My early years were hell on earth and I hated them and when I was able to, then I leave home as soon as I could. My first adventure into a new life was interesting and at the same time terrifying I had no knowledge of the big outside world and at young age,16, I had to learn fast and I did. Along the way I have met some very good people who helped me and I am forever in their debt but sadly they are now dead. I spent some time in the London Police and yes, I was a London bobby for two years. New horizons beckoned me to a far-off land on the other side of the planet, with some money in my pocket and a good size bank account off I went to Australia. The only luggage I had was the clothes I stood up in and by the time I arrived at Perth airport a good size hangover. I had nowhere to go I did not know a soul and to be truth I did not have much of an idea as to where I was. I made my way by bus into the city. It was getting dark and I was looking for somewhere to lay my bones for the night. I found such a place, under a bush in a nature preserved park. I ended up in a mining town called Dampier and that is all I am going to say about that. Once again, itchy feet on, I set for places unknown to me but always heading north, for some reason. During this time, I had many jobs mostly working in pubs and bars selling and mixing drinks. I met another pom called Peter Cole, at least that is what he was calling himself and was not going to dispute it.  I managed to buy almost clapped out old station wagon and my new-found friend and I headed off north again. Along the way and many miles later we ended up in a prawn fishing town where I managed to get a job as a deckhand on a trawler. Peter did as well but for a different fleet and on a smaller boat then the one I was on. I last saw him at sea very briefly and that’s the last I have ever seen of him.

Due to a dispute with a sting ray that put me in hospital that was the last of my seafaring days. Off north again but this time I ended up in Darwin. Once again, I found myself behind the bar pouring a mixing drink to a load of alcoholics. The brewery went on strike the pub shut its doors and together with the other bar staff I was jobless again. After about two minutes thought I present myself to the recruitment officer at Darwin army barracks and I was enlisted in the Australian Army. It suited me down the ground, so much so I stayed in the army for almost ten years and itchy feet got hold of me again.

If anyone wants to know any more then buy the book and read it. Tatty bye all.

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CHAPTER 1

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M any people have told me to write something down about what I have done in my life and what I have wasted in my life. First, I want to say that I did not want to do this in case anyone whoever read this (and who would?) might think I am being arrogant or self-indulgent, but anyone who does read this can be assured that nothing can be further from my mind.

The first thing I can recall is that I hated my childhood. I still remember to this day the beatings that were continually dished out to me by my father. I had two younger brothers, and he took the attitude that I was responsible for them. If they misbehaved, then I got the beating. My brothers quickly cottoned on to the fact that they could get away with murder, while I took the beatings. By beating, I mean with clenched fists or the buckle end of a belt. I can clearly recall being picked up and thrown against a wall in my bedroom. I have no idea why that happened, but my father had some idea I was responsible for something I didn’t do.

I can clearly remember one occasion when my father decided to take up pipe-smoking. He was sitting in the lounge room, keeping an eye on me. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he was trying to find another way to give me a beating again. He did not have long to wait for the opportunity courtesy of one of my brothers. My father stood up, pipe in mouth, and started to walk towards the lounge room door. Just as he approached it and went to reach for the door handle, my brother came flying through the door. The door hit my father’s pipe, sending it halfway down his throat. This to me was very funny, and I burst out laughing. The next thing I remember was seeing lots of stars in the room. I ended up wearing a fist the size of a plate, slamming into the left side of my head. The result of this was, I suffered some inner ear damage, damage I still have to this day. I was eleven years old.

I won’t dwell on the beating for too much longer, but one thing did concern me, and it was this. Throughout my childhood and all the beatings I took, not once did my mother intervene in any way to try to spare me another beating. There was only one person I could truly turn to for comfort, and that was my grandmother. She knew and understood what I was going through. She could no more to stop the beatings than I could, but she did listen to me, and she was a shoulder I could cry on. I absolutely doted on my grandmother. I loved her dearly.

I must admit I did somewhat enjoy my schooldays mainly because I could get away from my parents and, in particular, my father cos I knew I was safe from his temper if only for a few hours during the day. The school I went to was a very tough school to attend. I quickly realised that if I did not go to school with a weapon of some sort, then by end of the day, someone would have used a weapon on me. I had a genuine cut-throat razor. It was solid steel with an ivory handle. When I acquired my razor, I also got the stone to sharpen it on and the horsehair leather strop to hone it on. I must admit I was not old enough to shave. I still have my razor, and sometimes when I am not in any hurry, I do shave with it. My razor was used on a few occasions for things other than shaving. I won’t go into it here, but rest assured it has tasted blood, but not my own.

When I was a young boy, there were two things that I really wanted to do. One of these was that I wanted to fly. I did not care what I flew. I just wanted to get my arse off the ground and fly. The other thing I was really into was photography. I had my own darkroom and did all my own printing and developing. It was one of the few times, very few times, that my father actually supported me. He built for me my very own darkroom in the attic of the house we lived in. In my young boy’s imagination, I wanted to be an aerial photographer in the Royal Air Force. I had this vision of me lying on my stomach on the nose of some high-flying aircraft, taking photographs of what was on the ground beneath me. I was really pissed off and as grumpy as a bear with a sore head when I found out that it was no longer done that way. Aerial photos were taken automatically by the camera mounted in the aircraft. What a bummer. I was really pissed that one of my life’s ambitions disappeared in a puff of deflated imagination.

We lived in a house not too far away from what used to be, during the war, RAF Hornchurch. It used to be a fighter squadron base, and I think it had Spitfires there, but I cannot be certain of this. One day after being banished to my bedroom for some perceived misbehaviour, I was looking out of my bedroom window, and I saw, way off in the distance, what I now know to be a glider being launched by a winch. I was wrapped up in what I was watching. I gazed out of the window for what must have been hours, just watching gliders going up and down. To say I was hooked is a gross understatement. I knew then that that was what I wanted to do, but alas, I don’t think I was any more than twelve or thirteen years old, and I had no chance. Besides, I would have had to convince my parents, and there was no way on this planet or the next that I would be allowed to learn how to fly an aeroplane with no engine. I kept this vision firmly locked in my memory for many, many years.

There were a few times I tried, really tried, to leave home. I so desperately wanted to run away. The beatings became more and more frequent. I had reached a point where I just had to get away. Life was becoming more and more intolerable. At this stage, I was not even a teenager yet. My best attempt was when I got on my pushbike and just rode and rode. I rode that bike for three whole days. I slept rough wherever I could. Food was a bit of a problem. I was getting hungry.

On the evening of day three, I came across some roadworks, and there were several large concrete pipes waiting to be laid into the various trenches that had already been dug. I had planned to spend a night sleeping in one of them and be gone by early morning. Just down the road, there was a church, and I heard some singing. It was not hymns being sung; it sounded more like a youth gathering of some sort. I made my way there and went inside a hall where everyone was. They seemed to be having a good time, but the best thing of all was the food. On a long wooden table were rows of sandwiches, biscuits, and other assorted finger food. I got stuck into it big time.

What I did not know was that my parents had told police I was missing, and because my pushbike was missing, it was a good guess I had shot through. What I also did not know was that the police had issued a description of me, details of the colour of my bike, etc. After all, I was still legally a