Me and My Brothers

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They had, it transpired, reacted badly to uniformed authority once again. An NCO had shouted some orders to them. The twins didn’t like his attitude, his lack of respect, and one of them had thumped him. Then they had walked out, deciding Army life wasn’t for them.

And after an uncomfortable week’s punishment in the guardroom, they walked out again.

To me, it all seemed a terrible waste. Just four months before, they had been promising young boxers with just one minor blot on their record, for which they had been treated leniently. Now they were wanted men facing serious disciplinary action and, almost certainly, jail. I went to see them in hiding in various parts of London, and tried to persuade them to give themselves up. I told them the Forces favoured sportsmen; they could do well with their boxing talent. But it was a waste of breath, as usual. The twins were not going to serve in the Army and that was that.

They stayed on the run until early November, two weeks after their nineteenth birthday. Then one cold, snowy night Reggie suddenly turned up at Vallance Road. Mum was desperately worried for him but Reggie assured her he was all right. He stayed with her for about an hour then left. As he walked into the street, a voice called out, ‘Hello, Reg. I’m going to take you in.’ It was PC John Fisher, who knew the twins by sight.

Reggie asked him calmly to do him a favour and go away; he didn’t want a row. But PC Fisher said he couldn’t do that and lunged forward to grab him. Reggie ducked and threw a right hand. PC Fisher fell to the ground and Reggie hurried away in the snow.

It was only a matter of time. The police knew both twins were in the area and they were picked up a few hours later.

At Thames Street Court that morning the magistrate, Colonel W. E. Batt, jailed them for a month. It was the first time they had seen the inside of a prison as convicted persons.

After their sentence, a military escort took the twins to Wemyss Barracks at Canterbury, Kent, where they were court-martialled for desertion. They escaped yet again, but it was a short-lived freedom and on 12 May 1953 the twins found themselves serving nine months’ detention in the notorious military prison of Shepton Mallet in Somerset.

It was to be a tough nine months…for the Army! The prison staff at Shepton Mallet had never seen anyone like the twins before, and several sergeants were replaced because they couldn’t handle them. The twins were so uncontrollable that the Commanding Officer sought my help. He wondered why it was impossible to get through to the twins with words, why they resolved everything with violence. I tried to explain that life was like that in the East End; if anyone tried to threaten you, you hit them first. It was a world which that polite, charming CO would never understand, and he asked me to have a quiet word with the twins. I agreed to try.

The twins were unimpressed that I’d been having a cosy chat over a cup of tea with the CO; all the guards understood was a punch in the face, they said, and that was what they’d get. Nothing I tried to say cut any ice with them. They simply would not tolerate being ordered around. Tell them to do something and they’d rebel. Ask them, in a civil tone, and they would be fine. Ronnie, particularly, would rebel against a strong person, unless he had reason to respect him. There was one sergeant there they did like: he was firm but courteous, and they did what he told them.

The twins didn’t always use violence to make their point. One day a military policeman who had been giving Ronnie a hard time was standing outside the cobbler’s shop where Ronnie was working. Suddenly Ronnie rushed out, blood all over his face, screaming, ‘That’s it! I’ve done it now! It’s all over! Better get in there!’

The guard, convinced there had been a murder, dashed off to get reinforcements, but by the time they arrived everything was calm. Ronnie, who had smeared the blood over his face after cutting his hand slightly while working, was back at his bench.

‘What the hell happened here?’ demanded a senior officer.

Ronnie looked at him blankly. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. Then he looked at the embarrassed MP. ‘He must be going round the bend. Been working too hard or something.’

It is a pity that the NCO at the Tower of London rubbed the twins up the wrong way that March morning in 1952, because I’m sure they could have made something of themselves in the Army. They were fit and strong, and they would have loved the physical side; I’m sure they would have become physical training instructors in no time. They both had a lot of guts, too: once, on an assault course, Ronnie jumped from something and landed awkwardly, crashing his knee sickeningly into his chin. But he forced himself to carry on; he had unbelievable determination and hated quitting anything. They both had a gift for leadership, too, and had it been wartime I feel it would have been a very different story. They were the type who could so easily have distinguished themselves with courage in the face of extreme danger.

As it was, the twins spent what should have been the rest of their National Service giving the Shepton Mallet staff a very hard time. And when they were thrown out on to Civvy Street towards the end of 1953 each of their records bore that ugly scar: Dishonorable Discharge.

What, I wondered, were they going to do with the rest of their lives?