Tanky Challenor

SAS and the Met

Alfred Draper, Harold Challenor

• Publisher: Leo Cooper
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9780850521245
• eBook ISBN: 9781473818842
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: World War II
• Index: History

Until the events of 11 July, 1963, rocketed him into the headlines of the national press, Tanky Challenor, was only known in- and admired by- the close-knit circle of friends in the SAS and the Metropolitan Police. He was also known, but only grudgingly admired, by most of the villains in the West End. On that fateful July day, however, a demonstration was staged outside Claridge's Hotel where King Paul and Queen Frederika of Greece were staying. The demonstrating at Queen Frederika's supposedly malign influence on Greek polotics, and one of them was to claim that Challenor had planted a brick on him. In no time the name of Tanky Challenor became a household word. With the help of Alfred Draper, a journalist of many years' experience, Tanky now tells the story of his life from his childhood, through his time in the SAS, where he won a well deserved Military Medal, to his eventual downfall. In no way does he attempt to excuse himself not to pour whitewash over events that have been long established. He simply sets out to explain how it came about that a young man of undoubtable intelligence but limited educational background ended up in a mental home. Now for one moment does he blame the Army, which clearly played a major role in the forming of his character, and his time in which he obviously enjoyed. But when a man is obliged to spend months behind the enemy lines and taught not only to kill but to take pleasure in killing, it is bound to leave some mark on his personality. Tanky leaves the reader to draw his own conclusions from this story which seldom moves at less then a gallop, and is packed, not only with adventure, but also with much wit and shrewd observation.

Chapter One

Members of the criminal fraternity are not renowned for the unanimity of their opinions, but on one thing they are in total agreement: all policemen are illegitimate – but the sentiment is expressed a little more forcefully in the argot of the underworld. Far from being offended, policemen take it as a compliment; it means they are doing their job. Although no one would have dared say so to my face, I know that in the sordid world of Soho’s gangland I was frequently referred to as “that bastard Challenor”.

The more respectable residents of that cosmopolitan square mile of London who simply wanted to lead an honest and industrious life saw me as a friend and a dedicated detective who was doing his best to stamp out organized crime.

Later it was claimed that I had delusions of having been appointed the “saviour of Soho”, and the crooks who had planned to ‘frame’ me in order to get me transferred to another Division because I was such a thorn in their flesh, latched on to the description and used it to denigrate me and my record as a crime-buster.

It is said that the whores danced in the street outside the Old Bailey when Oscar Wilde was jailed, glad to see a menace to their profession out of the way. I’m pretty certain that though there may not have been quite such an exuberant display of relief when I was publicly disgraced, a few glasses were raised in the clip-joints and strip clubs by the men who controlled organized crime and prostitution in the West End. I had got what they would have described as my come-uppance.

It arose out of what has come to be known as the “Brick Case” when I was accused of planting pieces of brick on innocent demonstrators.

I have done a lot of things I can be reasonably proud of, and a few of which I am ashamed, but one thing I will never be allowed to forget – my downfall. It will follow me to the grave and any obituary notice I might get will certainly harp on it, because it has been mentioned in those of other people. I was reminded of this when the eminent psychiatrist Doctor William Sargant died in August, 1988, at the ripe old age of 81. His obituary in the Daily Telegraph was spread over three columns and included this paragraph:

“The numerous cases in which he was involved included the trial in 1964 of Det. Sgt. Harold Challenor (accused of planting pieces of brick on demonstrators) who was found unfit to plead. Sargant told the subsequent inquiry that although Challenor was medically ‘as mad as a hatter’ he was completely sane and responsible for his actions.”

Make sense of that if you can, coming as it did from the brother of Tom Sargant, the founder of the organization Justice.

I do not want to be remembered as Challenor “the bent copper”, but if I have to be I would like the public to know there is a possible explanation for it. What is known in legal circles as a plea of mitigation. Perhaps they will then begin to understand if not forgive.

I’m prompted to write about it a quarter of a century later because more recent wars than the one I fought in have made people more responsive to the problems of the returning warrior and the invisible scars they often bear. This especially applied to Vietnam which left in its wake the wreckage of many young Americans who had been taught to kill in the most stealthy and barbaric manner, and who had served their country well. Some veterans managed to rehabilitate themselves, others could not adjust and resorted to living a solitary existence in self-imposed exile in the mountains, sustained by the special skills they had been taught.

At the end of the last war I was somewhat in the same category. I was a member of that military elite, the SAS, who fought their battles behind the enemy lines and were licensed to kill in the most unorthodox ways. But I did not run away, I sought to take my place in society and serve it. For a considerable time I succeeded, then I failed and paid the price, and twenty-five years later I’m still not sure if I’ve managed to come in from the cold.

When I began writing this book I intended to confine it to my wartime experiences with the Special Air Service; I could not bring myself to think, let alone write about, the events which brought about my disgrace. I wanted to draw a veil over it and tell people what a brave soldier I had been, and how later in civvy street, I became the scourge of criminals in the twilight world of Soho. Like Othello I wanted to remind everyone that I had done the State some service. The reader could form his own conclusions about the allegations of framing people.

I showed what I had written to Tom Sandrock, an old friend and formerly the Crime Correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, and asked for his opinion. Tom read it and was as frank and honest as I knew he would be. “Like it or not, Harry, in spite of all you did during the war and as a police officer, and both those phases of your life are on record, it was the ‘Brick Case’ which put your name before the general public. You must, however painful or difficult it might be, include in your story all you can recall about it.”

It was sound advice, and in my heart of hearts I have always wanted to explain, if not justify, my fall from grace, but I had never been able to bring myself to face up to the realities of what brought it about. The mere effort of trying to recall exactly what had happened on one fateful night made me physically ill. But I knew it was an ordeal I would have to endure if this book was to have any merit.

My problem was that, no matter how hard I tried, I would never be able to hold the New Testament in my right hand and solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, for the simple reason that there are still blank areas in my memory where the “Brick Case” is concerned. To let it rest there would appear too much like a glib evasion of unpalatable truths, so I have interspersed what I can recall with the transcripts of the Court hearings, and the official inquiry that followed. (Even that proved too great a strain and I was ill again for the first time for a considerable period and had to undergo further treatment before I could continue.)

On 4 June, 1964, I sat in the dock of Number One Court in the famous Old Bailey wedged between two prison officers. Many notorious criminals had sat in the same seat behind the glass surround – Crippen; Christie, the necrophiliac mass killer; Ruth Ellis, the last woman to hang; Smith, the brides in the bath murderer; Thompson and Bywaters; traitors, gangsters, fraudsters, conmen and arsonists.

I suppose I had something marginally in common with Christie. He was an ex-policeman and I was certainly a mass killer, although I had the blessing of the State at the time.

It was certainly no place for a detective sergeant who had gained a reputation for being a first class copper and the wielder of the iron fist which had become feared and detested by the criminal elements in Soho.

There was a certain amount of irony in the situation, for I was no stranger to the famous courtroom. I had appeared there many times in the past, but then I had played the role of prosecutor and my evidence from the witness box had sent many a lawbreaker to prison. Now I was the accused.

I had been branded a “bent copper”, the greatest stigma that can be levelled at a serving officer of the Metropolitan Police which prides itself, quite rightly, on being the finest force in the world.

Maybe I was not the model CID officer. Perhaps I retained too many of the qualities which had served me so well in the SAS. I was rough, tough, coarse and often profane. I did not meditate over a meerschaum; I mixed. I walked the dimly lit streets and visited the sleazy haunts where crime was incubated. I could drink all night and still retain, sponge-like, what booze-loosened tongues were saying, and next morning I could appear in Court looking as fresh as a man who had slept the clock round.

In my wallet I kept a scrap of paper on which I had written a couplet from Kipling’s “If”:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies.

The words meant a great deal to me, and I had always made the young detectives placed under my jurisdiction read them. Now I was going to be made to eat each of those words letter by letter and exposed as a hypocrite, a man from whose lips lies slipped like syrup from a spoon.

I could expect no mercy if I was found guilty, for the public place great faith in the custodians of law and order, and anyone who betrays that trust cannot expect any leniency. The gamekeeper turner poacher asks for all he gets. I was a man who had made a mockery of the lady holding the scales of justice on top of the enormous dome above me. If I was found guilty the judge would make an example of me. But before that could happen the jury had to decide whether I was fit to plead or whether I was mad.

The yardstick by which insanity is judged in our courts are the McNaghten Rules which had their beginning in 1843 when Daniel McNaghten set out to shoot the Prime Minister, Sir Robert Peel, but shot the wrong man, Edward Drummond, Peel’s secretary. At his trial the defence pleaded that he suffered from acute persecution mania, the judges acquitted him, and he was committed to a lunatic asylum. As a result the House of Lords questioned the judges about their decision and the outcome was the McNaghten Rules which declared that a man could not be condemned if, at the time of the crime, he was suffering from a defect of reason such as to make him unaware of the nature of the act, or that he was doing wrong.

The rules have often been strongly criticized on the grounds that their too strict interpretation has led to miscarriages of justice, especially in murder cases, but so far no one has managed to come up with a better alternative.

Their main drawback is that it is up to the defence to prove insanity, and as the accused can hardly be expected to argue his own madness, reliance has to be placed on the evidence of medical experts who have an unfortunate tendency to disagree. Normally the prosecution can produce six witnesses to the defence’s four.

In my case there was no conflict of opinion. A formidable array of experts were called to say how mad I was: Doctor William Calder, Principal Medical Officer at Brixton Prison; Doctor Niall Farnan, Consultant Psychologist at Netherne Hospital; Doctor William Sargent, Head of the Department of Psychological Medicine at St. Thomas’s Hospital. I could have saved the State a lot of money because I knew in my lucid moments I had been mad for a long time, but I had been too scared to admit it for fear of the consequences, and in any case the moments of lucidity were becoming fewer and fewer, and I was gradually descending into a Walter Mitty world where I could not distinguish between fantasy and reality.

The law, like God, moved in a mysterious way, and although I was incarcerated in what is euphemistically called the “funny farm” on the recommendation of mental experts, they could not say I was unfit to stand trial. That could only be decided by a jury after they had heard the medical evidence.

As the experts gave their diagnoses I was certainly not “all there” in the physical as well as the mental sense. My head was bowed as if in penance, or so it must have seemed to the people in the crowded public gallery. In reality my eyes were fastened on the gleaming black shoes of the prison officer sitting beside me, and I was transported back in time to when I was a prisoner. Only then the circumstances were somewhat different; I was a POW and doing my utmost to withstand the brutal interrogations of the German SS who wanted details about the secret mission I had been parachuted into Italy to carry out. They too had worn shiny black shoes. I relived those moments of terror, memories of which still wake me in the night sweating and shaking.

I forced myself to return to the present. I looked up and fixed my eyes on the formidable figure of Mr Justice Lawton in his scarlet robes sitting on a dais below the Sword of Justice hanging on the oak-panelled wall behind him. It reminded me of the sword of Damocles.

I saw the judge lean forward and peer over the top of his half-moon spectacles at the man in the witness box whom I recognised as Doctor William Calder, who had examined me in Brixton Prison. I realized they were talking about me, but in a rather detached manner, as if I were not there. I could not grasp everything that was being said because of the continuous ringing in my ears, like an incessant alarm clock. I turned my head from side to side, hoping that one ear might pick up what the other had missed, cursing the deafness which had become progressively worse over the past year and more, but it was as if I was listening in on a crossed line. Everything seemed garbled, and I was only able to pick up the occasional phrase like “paranoid schizophrenia”, and then one chilling passage with alarming clarity, “… has been mentally abnormal for a very considerable time”, and soon afterwards, “… I thought he was a potential danger if left at large”.

What on earth are they talking about, I asked myself. My head was now pounding like a trip hammer, and I switched off, as effectively as if I had pressed a remote control button and blacked out a television screen. I knew that what I was hearing was all part of the major plan. I had to be publicly disgraced before I could be sent on the clandestine mission for which I had so long been preparing. The voices droned on, like wasps in an apple orchard. I was sitting behind the steering wheel of my old jeep on the edge of a forest far behind the enemy lines in German-occupied France. The spare wheel on the front of the vehicle bore the legend “Little Tanky”. Tanky was the nickname I had been given when I joined the SAS and I had bequeathed the name to my jeep, which was my proudest possession, for it was no ordinary run of the mill jeep; it was so powerfully armed that it was like a battleship on wheels. Mounted above the steering wheel in front of me was a single Vickers machine gun. Sitting beside me was Lieutenant Gurney peering through the sights of a twin-Vickers, and in the back was the third member of the crew with another twin-Vickers. Carefully stowed in special containers were enough grenades and explosives to wage a full-scale battle.

No one spoke and the hum of the insects in the nearby forest was clearly audible. Suddenly the pastoral silence was shattered by the throaty rumble of a vehicle, and seconds later a German staff car with a pennant fluttering on the bonnet came into view. Lieutenant Gurney whispered, “There must be a high-ranking officer in it. We’ll have it.”

The staff car was only a hundred yards away when we hosed it with a mixture of armour-piercing, tracer and incendiary bullets. I saw the windscreen shatter into thousands of marble-sized fragments, and before it crashed into a ditch I saw a uniformed officer feebly waving a gloved hand from the window. I fired a short burst to finish him off. Then the car blew up. I felt no remorse, only a great sense of elation. I was only doing what I had been trained to do. It was just one more Kraut to my personal tally.

I don’t know why that particular incident should have come to mind for it was just one of many similar episodes during my cloak-and-dagger days with the SAS. What I did know was that for months I had been preparing myself for a return to those wartime days because for a considerable time an inner voice had been telling me that I was being recalled for duty and should stand by for a highly dangerous and secret assignment which would require all my old wartime skills – how to carry out acts of demolition after being parachuted from a low-flying aircraft, how to kill silently with my bare hands, with a piece of wire, or a razor sharp dagger, how to withstand the most brutal interrogation without breaking down and revealing anything important to the enem...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Full Title
• Copyright Page
• Illustrations
• Foreword
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen
• Chapter Fourteen
• Chapter Fifteen
• Chapter Sixteen
• Chapter Seventeen
• Index