Monday 17th February 1992
11th Signal Regiment
Catterick Garrison
England
I reported for work, although I didn’t know what to expect. My instructions said 11th Signal Regiment, but there was no mention of a squadron or a role. I completed my arrival forms and was told to see the Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Dunn-Forbes.
“Good morning, Sir.” I threw up my best salute. “Staff Faulkner—newly arrived from Sixteenth Signal Regiment.”
“Good morning, Staff. I believe you’re here on your last six months service?”
“Yes, Sir. I haven’t been given a specific role, but earlier, I was told you might need an instructor with the lads in Three Squadron in Vimy Barracks.”
“How long have you served, Staff?”
“Twenty-two years and six months, Sir.”
“Here’s the deal then, Staff. You’re on our unit strength, but this is the only time I want to see you in uniform. The next time I see you officially will be when you report in on your last day.”
I nodded, not totally comprehending what he meant.
“As far as I’m concerned, Staff, after this interview, you are on what you’ve probably heard called, Gardening Leave. Do you have accommodation?”
“Yes, Sir, we own our house in Darlington.”
“Okay. You may if you wish, go and see if the instructors in Three Squadron need any help, but as far as I’m concerned, if you do come to work, it’s a couple of times a week in sports kit, not uniform. I know you guys, coming to the end of your time, find it difficult.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’d like you to come to Catterick at least once a month to make a travel claim for your daily travel to work. Understood?”
“Yes, and thank you, Sir.”
“You’ve given us twenty-two years, mate. I’m giving you six months to use as you see fit. I’ll see you in August.”
“Thank you, Sir.” I saluted and left the man’s office with my head in a spin. I headed for 3 Squadron. I had a coffee with two of the instructors and found out that one day a week would be excellent if I wanted to turn up and take the lads for a run or something similar, but there was no obligation. I took their number and left.
* * *
Darlington
England
I had several one-day resettlement courses to attend over the following six months. I travelled to York, Edinburgh, Catterick, and Newcastle attending lectures on finance, employment, and final resettlement course choices.
I had considered a six-week course tackling HGV Class 1, but that would lead to work where I was away from home often. I thought about a practical course like painting and decorating, or plumbing, but it struck me that I’d never learn enough to compete with guys who were already doing those jobs. Instead, I opted for a six-week course in Supervision and Management.
I had been a full member of the Institute of Supervision and Management for several years, but this course would educate me on a lot of detail useful in civilian employment.
I was aware of the fundamental laws which separated us from the animal kingdom. I had a good grasp of Criminal Law, and I had regularly been on both sides of Military Law. What I wasn’t up to speed on was Employment Law. The course I chose would fill the knowledge gap.
I enrolled at the Resettlement Centre, Catterick Garrison. In April I started my course. For six weeks I was in the company of eleven other guys as we got to grips with the changes which would affect us as we became ex-Servicemen—veterans.
Many of us would now live in a self-imposed purgatory. We were no longer considered to be serving soldiers, airmen, or sailors, but neither would we ever feel like civilians. We would refer to ourselves as veterans. I also knew many of the women in uniform felt the same way.
Ex-Service personnel I would learn first-hand, were a breed apart.
At one-day briefings, we attended sessions where one or two guest speakers were those who had gone before. They stood on the stage and told us about the pitfalls of certain jobs and how good other jobs were. One guy was an ex-Tornado pilot who had become a Sub-Postmaster. Another was a guy who’d been an infantry soldier and became an equal partner in a successful car dealership.
One positive aspect of my situation was that I was officially allowed to apply for work from June onwards. In theory, it gave me a three-month head start to get a job.
It was one thing being given permission to find a job a couple of months early, but it was quite another, actually getting interviews. One day while in Darlington looking in shop windows and walking around the town it occurred to me to tackle the idea differently.
I joined the library and returned home half an hour later with three books. One was all about Employment Law, which I was fixated on because I had to know what was right and what was wrong in the eyes of the average civilian employer. The second book was about interview skills and presenting a case for your suitability. The book which made Avril laugh aloud was my third choice; ‘400 jobs for School Leavers’.
“I have to know what’s out there,” I said. “If I go through this book and leave markers in the pages of interest it will cut down my search and help me to focus.”
“Okay, you do that, and I’ll make tea.” She went to the kitchen, laughing.
I liked to hear her laugh. When we’d first arrived back, she had burst into tears when she saw the condition of our house. It was fortunate at that time she hadn’t seen it as it was when I first received the keys. I’d never made home improvements, but Avril was so distraught, I was inspired to spend every minute I could redecorating, carpeting, and re-establishing our home.
When we’d done the best we could, we’d used some of our substantial savings to buy a new kitchen. I knew I would shortly be receiving a large lump sum when my service was completed. We also had new windows and doors fitted all round and replaced the porch to match the modern fittings. It was at that time I saw my Avril cheer up again regarding our house.
I would have paid much more for her happiness.
All that work had been away back in those dark days when we’d arrived back in the UK. Here we were, in July and my job search was hindered by my lack of experience in civilian employment.
When I had read my library book with the 400 jobs for school leavers, I went back through and found I’d highlighted ten positions. I made notes from each and reduced my list until I had two possibilities. I didn’t want to work in communications, long-distance trucking, or a heavy industry environment, which would still leave lots of other options.
The natural choice was security, which had a broad spectrum and not surprisingly attracted a lot of ex-Service personnel; both male and female. The security industry I found was also a line of work with shit pay.
My alternative and preferred choice was Retail Management. I read the information on the subject, and was convinced I had several of the necessary skills.
On my next trip to the library the following day, I took out books on Wholesaling, Management, and Retail Management.
* * *
Friday 28th August, 1992
Catterick Garrison
England
“Good morning, Sir.” I stood in front of the CO in civilian clothes.
“Good morning, Staff.” Lieutenant Colonel Dunn-Forbes smiled. “Those six months passed quickly, didn’t they?”
“They did, Sir.”
“How are things looking on the job front?”
“I had two promising job offers, but my heart wouldn’t have been in either.”
“What were they?”
“The first was the appointment of Communications Supervisor on the UK side of the Channel Tunnel.”
“My God, they haven’t finished building the thing yet, have they?”
“No, it’s not linked between the UK and France yet, but my main issue was the expectation that I’d move my family down to Felixstowe. I’m not prepared to put my wife through the sale of our house to start again.”
“What was the other job?”
“I was interviewed for the Admin and Security Officer’s role at Holkham Hall, a stately home in Norfolk. For the right person it would be a wonderful job, but by the time the interview was underway I knew it wasn’t for me. The role was dependent on my wife being a jumped-up version of a maid—it wasn’t happening.”
“Good heavens. What are you considering now?”
“I’m now targeting Retail Management as a second career.”
“Good for you. I hope it works out. How did you get on at the Resettlement Centre?”
“Pretty well, Sir. One of the senior guys has asked me to get in touch if I make it in my chosen path. He said it would be good to have somebody who tackles Retail Management and can return to talk about it to the audiences at the centre.”
The officer stood, came around his desk, and extended his hand. “Thank you for your service and dedication, mate. Now go out there and start sorting Civvy Street. Good luck.”
We shook hands.
“Thank you, and goodbye, Sir.” I stood erect with my arms by my sides for what would be the final time to pay my respects to a commissioned officer.
I left Catterick with a sense of loss, which I put down to the cutting of certain ties, like handing over my MOD Form 90 (Identity Card) to have it stamped with the word ‘Reservist’. I’d be on the Reserve and available for service until I was fifty-five. The good news was, apart from my ‘lump sum’, I would be on a military pension from one month after leaving.
I drove home and stopped on Catterick Bridge for a while to watch the cars roaring up and down the A1. The bridge felt like a final demarcation line—when I crossed it, my new life started.
* * *