Three Greens: There's More than One Way to Get a Military Pension

By Dougie Brimson

Staring down the barrel of dismissal from the RAF following an unjust court martial, Squadron Leader Graham Hall DFC is facing an uncertain future in civilian life.
However, after a lifetime of obeying the rules, an increasingly aggrieved Hall decides to ?ght back and right the wrong being done to him. Not just by breaking the law, but by breaking it in spectacular fashion by undertaking an audacious and spectacular robbery.
Thanks to years of military experience, he has the plan, he has the target and he has the motive. All he needs are ?ve equally bitter ex-servicemen to help him pull it off.
Thankfully, he knows exactly where to ?nd them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Bus Movies Ltd
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9781839786884

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

11th March 2009

Like all British military units, the working week for most people at RAF Halton started on Monday morning at 08.00 hours on the dot. Not before, not after, at.

Prior to that, time was spent drinking tea and talking about what had happened over the weekend, be it sport, family or social. Anything but the actual job you were there to do. This wasn’t a negative, far from it. It was merely the traditional service way of easing oneself back into the working week. Reforging connections broken by time spent in the real world.

On this occasion however, in the offices of the Personal Services Flight, as the clock hit 08.00, all six members of the team were hard at work. Their natural resentment at being back at their desks tempered by a feeling of impending doom.

Squadron Leader Alex Hall felt it the second he walked in. For not only did all eyes fall on him, but the office immediately fell into a sombre silence.

‘Morning boss,’ said the female corporal sat closest to the front desk. More to break the silence than anything else.

‘Morning everyone,’ replied Hall. ‘Is Flight Lieutenant Atkins in?’

‘Yes sir, she’s in her office.’

Hall nodded and made his way around the counter.

‘Sir?’

He stopped and turned back to face the corporal. Suddenly aware that he wasn’t just being watched, he was being stared at. And by anxious faces.

‘Any news?’

Hall paused for a moment and then forced a thin smile. ‘Let me talk to Flight Lieutenant Atkins first, OK?’

The Corporal nodded in response and Hall continued his walk between the various desks until he had passed out of sight. Only then did she exchange worried glances with the other five members of staff.

‘Shit,’ she muttered.

Dee Atkins sat at her desk, crestfallen. Part of her wanted to shout at the injustice of it all, another part wanted to burst into tears at the damage being done to a man she had come to admire and respect in the eighteen months that they’d worked together.

There was however, a larger part which kept everything else in check. They were after all, officers in the Royal Air Force and as such, whatever her personal thoughts, she had to remain professional at all costs.

‘So what will you do?’ she said.

Hall shrugged his shoulders and sat back in his chair. He looked beaten, Resigned to his unjust fate. ‘There’s nothing I can do. The appeal boards decision is final. As of Friday, I’m on gardening leave and in three months time, I’ll be a civilian.’

‘It’s so bloody wrong.’

‘That’s the old boys flying club for you. When push comes to shove, it’s close ranks, cover your back and let some other poor sod take the flak,’

‘Better you than them. Is that it?’

‘In a nutshell.’

‘Well it sucks,’ she replied.

‘Pretty much, but it is what it is,’ sighed Hall as he got to his feet. ‘I better tell the chaps.’

‘They’ll be upset.’

Hall choked for a moment and then, with a shrug of acknowledgment, headed back out to the main office to deliver his news.

Despite asking his staff to respect the confidence of the boards findings, news of Hall’s dismissal spread through the unit like wildfire. That was the way of things. Military units might be secretive places to those outside the wire, but keeping anything from those on the inside was often impossible. Especially when it involved something as emotive as Squadron Leader Alex Hall.

As a consequence, aside from a brief informal meeting with the Station Commander who offered both his sympathies and immediate leave until his official discharge date, an offer Hall declined, he had remained in his office for most of the day fielding phone calls and commencing the work of clearing his desk to make sure that any outstanding tasks were completed. If nothing else, Hall was a stickler for detail and he wasn’t going to let a little thing like being thrown out of the service impact on that.

He was still at it some hours later when his door opened and Squadron Leader Paddy Doyle walked in and sat down before placing two crystal glasses on the desk and filling them with golden liquid. ‘Word on the street is that there’s a job up for grabs,’ said Doyle in his soft Irish voice. ‘Some Squadron Leader getting the elbow or something.’

‘Piss off paddy,’ said Hall with a wry smile as he reached across and lifted a glass.

‘To plan D,’ said Doyle as he clinked his glass against Hall’s and drained the contents.

‘Plan D?’

‘Well A, B and C didn’t work but knowing you, there’s a D.’

Hall shook his head and downed his drink. ‘Not this time, I’m done. It’s true what they say, you can’t beat the system.’

‘The system’s bollocks,’ said Doyle as he leaned across and refilled their glasses. ‘So what will you do?’

‘I’m getting asked that a lot today.’

‘It’s a valid question.’

‘Well I’ve lost most of my pension, my wife and my reputation and on top of that, I’ve got allegations of fraud and cowardice on my CV.’

‘Bullshit. Misconduct on operations isn’t cowardice.’

‘Try telling that to potential employers,’ relied Hall sadly. ‘Anyway, to answer your question, god knows. Get my old plane flying again, finish my novel.’

‘You’re writing a book?’

‘Started. Big difference.’

‘What’s it about? Fifty Shades of RAF blue?’

Hall smiled. ‘It was just a daft idea I had. I used to work on it to pass the time when I was away from home.’

‘Well you’ve certainly got something to write about now.’

‘And the time apparently.’

The two men settled into an uneasy silence but Hall could sense that there was a question coming.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Spit it out.’

Doyle paused for a moment and then asked, ‘Would you do it again? You know, the money thing.’

‘It was the right thing to do. I’ve never doubted that for a second.’

‘There were other ways.’

‘Spoken like a true desk jockey.’

‘Ouch!’ replied Doyle with a wry smile. ‘That’s me told.’

‘We were at war Paddy,’ replied Hall quietly. ‘If we weren’t flying we were sleeping so I needed everyone on their game, especially the ground crews.’

‘I get that.’

‘So why should the aircrew be put in a hotel and the lads given tents? Especially in those kind of temperatures.’

‘You don’t need to convince me.’

‘I’d rather take the flak for spending impress money making sure they were happy than risk losing an aircraft because I had lads down with food poisoning or heat stroke,’ continued Hall. ‘Orders or no bloody orders.’

‘I agree with you. So why don’t you keep fighting? You’ve still got the option of civil action you know.’

‘With what? Donna’s taking me for for every penny. Besides, what chance would I have against the M.O.D in a case I’ve already lost twice?’

Doyle sighed and settled back in his chair. ‘So what? You just swallow it?’

‘I don’t have a choice. Not really.’

‘Christ, you’re not even angry are you?’

Hall paused. Of course he was angry, he was fucking furious. Why wouldn’t he be? But years spent flying combat and covert operations had given him the ability to bury his emotions when he had to because be it fear, anxiety or anger, they all amounted to the same thing, weakness. ‘What would be the point?’ he said. ‘After three years I suppose I’ve resigned myself to my fate.’

‘Jesus, has it really been three years?’

‘Yep,’ replied Hall sadly. ‘All thanks to Air Commodore Bailey. That bastard’s been on my case from day one.’

‘You know he’s leaving?’

‘Air Commodore’s never leave, you know that as well as I do,’ replied Hall sadly. ‘They just take their salary and earn fortunes on the side.’

‘Well I heard this morning that he’s taken a job with the Bank of England. Something to do with airside security. Starts in a few weeks.’

‘That won’t help me. He’ll still have more than enough influence with the old boys network to keep screwing me over. It’ll be a matter of principle.’

The two men sat in silence for a moment. Each wrapped up in their own thoughts.

‘Would you have done it?’ asked Hall suddenly. ‘If you’d been faced with the same situation?’

‘Not in a million years. But that’s why you’re a better man than me Squadron Leader.’ He leant across and held up his glass. Hall lifted his and clinked the two together.

‘Come on, let’s go to the mess and get shit faced.’

Having declined Paddy Doyle’s offer of a night on the lash, primarily to avoid an evening having to deal with the inevitable inquisition courtesy of his fellow officers, Hall had returned home.

However, rather than face his dark and empty house, he’d headed immediately for the sanctuary of his workshop.

Of all the things he’d done in his life, and, as an RAF Hercules pilot, the 44 year old had done more than most, little had given him as much pleasure as the time he’d spent in the workshop that took up half of the north side of the courtyard next to his farmhouse. Though not a spiritual man, Hall had come to believe, over the years, that the little wooden world he’d created with his own hands had taken on a life of its own. The dust dancing in the light and the smells that hung heavy in the air, even when the doors and windows were wide open, were evidence of that. They were its soul, its personality.

Hall had even jokingly given it a name, Albert. Or to be more specific, Slim Albert, a play on the nickname given to another workplace that he’d once been happy in, the giant C130 transport aircraft that was known to all and sundry, as Fat Albert. Real or imagined, Albert was effectively Hall’s buddy and unlike the aircraft, he talked to him endlessly. In truth, he had to.

Donna, his wife, had called him potty when she’d first caught him chattering away, seemingly to himself. She’d had no idea of how mentally and emotionally fragile he’d been at that time, as he’d never felt able to tell her just how close he’d come to crashing his badly damaged aircraft over Taliban held territory. Even after all this time, the mere thought of it could trigger a full body flashback to the cockpit.

Though he’d been offered post-operational counselling within days of returning from his penultimate tour of Afghanistan, he’d turned it down, knowing that even a hint of PTSD would have him taken off active duty and grounded. Instead, he’d found sanctuary in his workshop which had proved to be the perfect therapist. With Albert he’d pontificated, ranted, laughed, and, on occasion, cried. There was even one time, not so long ago, when Donna told him that she was leaving because she couldn’t stand it any more and he’d become convinced that the destruction of his world was almost complete, that Albert had stepped up and saved him. That night, a random click of the wooden buildings main circuit breaker had cut off the power and plunged Hall into total darkness as he’d sat with brandy and pills in hand, tearfully recounting his failings out loud. The sudden sensory depravation had dragged him back from the edge and left him engulfed in a sense of peace and tranquility.

By the time he’d gathered himself together enough to flick the circuit breaker on, the black dog had left. The pills and booze consigned to the bin.

From that point on, he had begun to heal. Life, he’d quickly come to understand, was about two things: context and perspective. Apply those correctly and one can overcome anything. Every day that the circuit breaker had remained firmly set had strengthened Hall’s mental health and, counter intuitively, affirmed his belief that Albert had been responsible for pulling him back from the abyss. Which was why the idea of losing him was unthinkable and had remained firmly buried in his subconscious as he’d continued to push forward with the absolute conviction that everything was going to work out.

Now, having devoured the fish and chips he’d brought on his way home and begun slowly working his way through a bottle of brandy, that fear had returned. The only question being what he was going to do to allay it.

As he’d told Paddy, the idea of fighting his corner in the courts had long been set aside, primarily to avoid making things even worse for himself. Yet there remained a part of him, a very large part, that continued to scream long and loud against the injustice of it all. And it was unjust. He’d been hung out to