Mowing it When I Like: Wellington Boots, #3

By V.M. Frost

Following on from book two in the Wellington Boots series, this true story is taken up again close to the date of what was to be the next adventure; a six month posting to the sunshine island of Cyprus. 

For the author, that posting was to provide many pitfalls of his own making, and rather than take the opportunities offered to him for adventure and self-enhancement, true to form, he instead opted for drunkenness, hedonism and rebellion

Before self-destructing totally, and much to the amusement of those that know him best, he made an unexpected decision. Surprising even himself, he became a police officer.

Read on for tales of despair, stupidity and bad decisions, but more importantly, a generous sprinkling of laughter and hope…

• Language: English
• Publisher: V.M. Frost
• Release date: Jan 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201737122

Book preview

For Holly and Heidi, with the deepest regret at my failed attempts at fatherhood, and for not being there when you needed me most. Despite everything, I am proud to see that you have both become wonderful parents.

Acknowledgements

My heartfelt thanks go to David Paske for allowing me to reproduce his brilliant Cyprus article; it still makes me laugh to this day! Thanks to Colin The Bear Sharp, for refreshing my memory and letting me into a couple of hilarious secrets from our time in Cyprus that I hadn’t known about. Still on Cyprus, I owe a debt of gratitude to my then Battery Commander Rod Jenkins, who saw in me sufficient of himself to go easy on me following the minefield incident.

Apologies are long overdue to Steve SAS Airlie, whose cushy posting was brought to an end so as to accommodate me, and belated apologies to my Troop Commander of the time, Martin Hewitt, who I let down during the competition.

My thanks to those that both accepted me into 16 A/D Regiment RA and became my friends for which I remain grateful. (Have you seen this by the way? springs to mind!

To the officers that had the misfortune to work with me during my time in Thames Valley Police, I thank you for your friendship and support.

Finally, thanks to Gary Meaby for giving me the Mowing it when I like line.

Also by VM Frost

By Conscience Bound

The Boy In Wellington Boots

Despatched

Entebbe – Marshalling The Crowd

Front Stack

Double Locked

Back to Back

Rear Stack

Palm To Palm

Just Add Alcohol

Farewell To Boots

Dismissed With Thanks

A Handful Of Frost

A Bird In My Drain

About the author

VM (Jack) Frost was born in Stamford, Lincolnshire. Moving with his Air Force parents to the Mediterranean island of Malta in the 1960’s, he remained there until 1976, when he returned to the UK to complete his education. Leaving school with negligible qualifications, he joined the British army where, after completing several operational tours, he left as a senior non-commissioned officer. Since then, he has undertaken such diverse work as: grill chef, baker, mechanic, and builder. After a period working as a residential social worker with troubled adolescents, he became a police officer; firstly with Thames Valley Police, and then later the Metropolitan Police, where for the remainder of his 15 years service, he served on the front line carrying out both investigatory work and public order duties, including the quelling of the 2011 Tottenham riots. Mowing It when I Like is his tenth book.

In vino veritas

In vino veritas, is some Latin I know

makes words trip off my tongue, that shouldn't, I know

When something awkward's  to be said

that I normally would dread

Dutch courage shuts down, my inhibitions

Makes me think I've made the right decisions

Drunk at the staff party, the boss I approach

not caring that on neglect of etiquette, I now encroach

To pretty girl that I work with, I abandon all shyness

don't think of the fact that it's alcohol's highness

that's making me say, how I worship her figure

I'm puzzled by her, uncaring snigger

Family gathering, drinks flowing, at the end of the meal

It’s time to tell, how about them I feel

Taken by the shoulders, I'm banished from their room

persona non grata, I fume in the gloom

In vino veritas, that well known phrase

has once more subjected me, to public stern gaze

Foreword

The end of Farewell to Boots; the second in the Wellington Boots series, left the author at the point of his, surprise – and some may say, with justification - undeserved promotion to sergeant.

This true story is taken up again close to the date of what was to be the next adventure; a six month posting to the sunshine island of Cyprus. The author was to be following in the footsteps of his Royal Air Force father who had served there during the unrest of the EOKA period in the 1960’s.

For Frost, that Cyprus posting was to provide many pitfalls of his own making, and rather than take the opportunities offered to him for adventure and self-enhancement, true to form, he instead opted for drunkenness, hedonism and rebellion.

Before self-destructing totally, and much to the amusement of those that know him best, he took the surprising and more sobering choice of becoming a police officer; firstly in a county force and then later with the Metropolitan Police.

This is his story.

Chapter One

Instant arsehole – just add alcohol

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On the 20th of July 1974, Turkey ordered a military invasion of Cyprus. Within two days, Turkish forces had established a narrow corridor linking the north coast with Nicosia. On the 23rd of July, the military junta in Greece collapsed. Launched with relatively few troops, the Turkish landing had limited success at first, resulting in the occupation of Turkish-Cypriot enclaves on the island, by Greek forces. After securing a more or less satisfactory bridgehead, Turkish forces agreed to a ceasefire on the 23rd of July.

Two days later formal peace talks were convened in Geneva between Greece, Turkey and Britain. Over the course of the following five days Turkey agreed to halt its advance on the condition that it would remain on the island until a political settlement was reached between the two sides. Meanwhile, Turkish troops did not refrain from extending their positions and more Turkish-Cypriot enclaves were occupied by Greek forces. A new ceasefire line was then agreed.

On the 30th of July, it was agreed that the withdrawal of Turkish troops from the island should be linked to a just and lasting settlement acceptable to all parties concerned. The declaration also spoke of 'two autonomous administrations - that of the Greek-Cypriot community and that of the Turkish-Cypriot community. On the 8th of August another round of discussions were held in Geneva. Unlike before, this time the talks involved the Greek and Turkish Cypriots. During the discussions the Turkish Cypriots, supported by Turkey, insisted on some form of geographical separation between the two communities. The Greek-Cypriot leader, Makarios, refused to accept the demand however, insisting that Cyprus must remain a unitary state.

Despite efforts to break the deadlock, the two sides refused to budge. On the14th of August, Turkey demanded acceptance of a proposal for a federal state, in which the Turkish Cypriot community - who, at that time, comprised about 18% of the population and owned about 10% of the land - would have received 34% of the island. The Greeks asked for 36 to 48 hours to consult with the Cypriot and Greek governments, but Turkey refused to grant any consultation time, effectively ending the talks.

Within hours, Turkey had resumed its second offensive. By the time a new, and permanent, ceasefire was called, 36% of the island was under the control of the Turkish military. The partition was marked by a United Nations Buffer zone or Green Line running east to west across the island.

The effect of the division was catastrophic for all concerned. Thousands of Greek and Turkish Cypriots had been killed, wounded or were missing, with a further two hundred thousand Greek and Turkish Cypriots, being displaced. In addition to the entire north coast, the Greek Cypriots were also forced to flee the eastern port city of Famagusta. The vast majority of the Turkish occupied area was predominantly populated and owned by Greek Cypriots prior to 1974, but in the process, up to around 200,000 Greek Cypriots who made up 82% of the population in the north became refugees, many of them fleeing at the word of the approaching Turkish army.

Since 1974, the ceasefire line separates the two communities on the island, and is commonly referred to as the Green Line. The United Nations consented to the transfer of the remainder of the 51,000 Turkish Cypriots that were trapped in the south to settle in the north, if they wished to do so. Many of them had previously moved to the areas under UK sovereign control awaiting permission to be transferred to the areas under Turkish control. Today, the Republic of Cyprus claims sovereignty of all areas except the British Military bases, areas controlled by Northern Cyprus and the buffer zone administered by the United Nations.

My regiment – 22 Air Defence Regiment, Royal Artillery, were next up to contribute to manning both the sovereign base area of Dhekelia and various United Nations posts along the buffer zone on the divided island. We were to provide this cover from June 1990 until December of the same year. Six months – summer months at that – in Cyprus! Even better than that, my battery – 35 Bty, was to take the first three months in Dhekelia on garrison duties.

Each day began at 0700 and ended at 1500 hrs. The rest of the day, duties aside, was to be all ours to spend drinking, getting sunburnt on the beach, or acting like Brits in Benidorm among hordes of liberated, female Scandinavian tourists in nearby Ayia Napa. All of this, while our counterparts from the other batteries were cooped up in camps and observation towers on the UN buffer zone. Life promised to be good but in my case, too much of a good thing was as usual, to be my downfall.

I must admit that my recollection of the training, which we undertook to prepare for our deployment, is hazy to say the least. I can remember being issued with a nice tropical uniform and an impossible-to-shape sky blue beret, and I vaguely recall a couple of lectures delivered by members of the United Nations. I also remember attempts at schooling us in both handy Greek and Turkish phrases.

It was impressed upon us, that whenever we were passed by a white United Nations vehicle, we were to salute it, no matter what it was or who it contained. We actually practiced this with stooges driving Land Rovers around our Dortmund barracks. This compulsive saluting, we were told, was to extend to the weekly shit truck that took away our stinking effluent from the more isolated observation posts, but more about that later.

One thing I do remember with some clarity in the run up to going to Cyprus, were the comedic lectures delivered by big Joe, a giant of a warrant officer with a thick Lancashire accent. Joe was to be head of the so-called R&R Cell. That is to say, his remit was to organise trips, flights and rental cars to the troops on rest and recuperation.

I never discovered whether he took a cut of the hire car revenue, but I do remember him flying over from Cyprus, a local car hire boss to extol the virtues of his company. There was a lot of very good price my friend, peppered with the awkward smiles of a man taken out of his comfort zone and deposited in a gymnasium packed with sceptical soldiers.

While researching this latest story, I dug deep into one of my packing cases. I was sure that I had some kind of regimental magazine in there somewhere and sure enough, after a bit of digging, I unearthed it. The magazine contains articles contributed by the various batteries and personalities, along with faded photos and what passed for wit at the time.

According to my magazine, our deployment was given the operational name of OP Queens Knight. Google doesn’t appear to be able to confirm whether that was a regimental name, British UN, or even a reference to the Sovereign Base Areas on the island. Queens Knight appears to relate to Afghanistan and so, I am none the wiser, but I digress.

Our tasks, according to the publication, were as part of UNFICYP:

Prevent the recurrence of fighting.

To contribute to the restoration of law and order, and a return to normal conditions - whatever they were.

When working with ESBA – the Eastern Sovereign Base Area of Dhekelia:

Protect the personnel, families, installations and property within the ESBA – and -

Keep the peace between the Turkish and Greek populations that abut onto the Sovereign Base Area.

Now, I know this because I have just read it, but for the life of me – and I’m pretty sure this was drilled into us at the time – I have no recollection whatsoever of the tasks expected of us. I just saw sea, sand and six months away from the nightmare that was my marriage.

According to the events diary section of my magazine, at 0800 hrs on the 4th of June 1990, my battery took over operational command of Dhekelia. The grown-ups had made the mistake of appointing the newly promoted Sergeant Frost as Troop Sergeant in command of 4 Troop.

The job of Troop Sergeant at Alexander barracks wasn’t too tasking, at least in the beginning. Just parade the lads in the morning, allocate duties and fatigues and then the day was pretty much my own. As senior NCOs, we even had our own beach club! Life got even easier when, still riding the popularity train, I was given an advanced education course. EPCA was one of the requirements before considering a Sergeant for further promotion and could take one through the ranks of Staff Sergeant to Warrant Officer Class two.

I hadn’t asked for the course, but someone was pushing me from above, probably in the hope that I would get my shit together, stop fucking around and climb another couple of rungs on the career ladder. That someone must have thought I’d had the potential to go all the way. Maybe I did; I certainly had a lot of opportunities thrown my way, but going all the way, held no interest for me. Many of my peers from those days are still serving today as senior officers, but despite all of the twists and turns of the life of a man who hadn’t ever had a plan – and still don’t, by the way - I’m pleased with the way my life eventually turned out.

Not long after I started the course, my troop were sent off into the mountains for some adventure training. I never did find out exactly what they got up to there, but adventure training was cut short and they were all sent back to barracks. They were to be confined to camp and given all the shit jobs the grown-ups could find for them. It was likely, that it was at this point, that I lost both the troop’s support and credibility as a senior NCO.

Rather than share their punishment of being confined to camp – I reasoned that, as I hadn’t been present during whatever it was they had done – I shouldn’t be expected to suffer their fate and so, without a thought for my men back at camp, sweeping and polishing, I drove over to Ayia Napa almost every night and got wasted. Each troop had been allocated one of the very good price rental cars to use during down time. Obviously, with the entire troop on lockdown, I added insult to injury by making use of the car.

In retrospect, I was selfish and unthinking and proved for the first time that I shouldn’t have been wearing three stripes. At the time, I don’t remember giving any of that a thought, treating my three months on the ESBA as a free holiday in the sun.

During my four weeks on the EPCA course, I met a helicopter instructor from the Army Air Corps. Paddy was still an operational pilot based in Cyprus, but like me, had been given time off to take the course. I became friendly with Paddy and told him about my failed attempt to become a pilot at Biggin Hill. He very kindly offered to take me up the next time he flew and to prepare me for another attempt. In the end, of course, I opted for drinking and partying instead.

Having worked out the minimum pass mark for the course, rather than spend my evenings studying, I concentrated on those subjects that I knew I had a chance of passing. All revision and homework was hurriedly done in the morning before class through bloodshot eyes and on the day of the test, I worked my way through the questions to which I knew the answers, leaving the rest blank. In so doing, I left the room with time to spare. So arrogant and laissez-faire was I that I didn’t even take the extra time to go over my answers. I remember Paddy looking up in astonishment as I left the room.

When the results were posted, I just scraped a pass, but a pass was a pass and nobody graded it other than to file a report confirming I had completed and passed EPCA and could now be considered for further promotion. The bubble had to burst soon and it did, but not before I was sent away on yet another course – range management, which would qualify me to run firing ranges. Meanwhile, my troop sweltered, swept and polished and to my shame, I didn’t give a fuck.

All good things must come to an end and so at the beginning of September it was our turn to change our berets from dark blue to light blue, sign for our United Nations ID cards and to go up to the Green Line to relieve the other batteries. We were now officially members of the British contingent of the UN, or BRITCON. 4 Troop were sent close to the small village of Astromeritis in Sector Two of the United Nations Buffer Zone. The troop’s home for the next three months was officially known as B32 and was housed in a deserted box factory. Close by, and surrounded by active minefields, was a patrol track that ran along the Turkish/Greek ceasefire line and one of the troop’s duties, was to carry out patrols to make sure there weren’t any incursions by either side.

From B32, we could clearly see one of the