Soldier Box

Why I Won’t Return to the War on Terror

Joe Glenton

• Publisher: Verso
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9781781680926
• eBook ISBN: 9781781684849
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

"I looked around my cell and saw the sheet of paper taped to the door at chest height. It listed everything in the room, chair, bed, soldier box . For a moment I thought it meant the cell itself; a box to put soldiers in."When the War on Terror began, Briton Joe Glenton felt compelled to serve his nation. He passed through basic training and deployed to Afghanistan in 2006. What he saw overseas left him disillusioned, and he returned home increasingly political and manifesting symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.
When he refused to return for a second tour, he was denied his right to object and called "a coward and a malingerer." He went absent without leave and left the country, returning later to the UK voluntarily to campaign against the wars. The military accused him of desertion and threatened years in prison.
Soldier Box tells the story of Glenton's extraordinary journey from a promising soldier to a rebel against what he came to see as unjustified military action.

Chapter 1

The first place I remember is a cottage in Norfolk. My father is from a place near there. A place so small it is called Smallburgh. He is a wild-looking giant with a beard. He was dyslexic when the condition was called stupidity and had a head for maths and a penchant for practical things. In those days he was a long-haired, earring-wearing truck driver and this upset my maternal grandmother who didn’t send my mother to grammar school in order to bag that kind of man.

My mother is a small, fierce Yorkshirewoman who wandered far from home. After divorcing her alcoholic RAF husband, she and my father met and not long after had my brother and, eighteen months later, me. Though my father tried on their first date, he was rewarded with a slap in a lay-by. A story he still repeats happily and unasked. We lived in Norfolk amid leafy lanes and pretty countryside, until we went north. The move cost us my Norfolk dialect and the price of a truck. We ended up near York, my mother’s home.

I outgrew school by the time I was eight years old, the boredom of classrooms and the struggling teachers gave me nothing I wanted. As soon as I left that cage to be home-educated I began to read and write, and have never stopped. I spent those years clutching a book or paper and pencil. I have heard some people suggest that this made me a misfit but sometimes things defy unpacking for having been lived; that’s to say I am unsure if my unusual schooling contributed to my decisions.

My brother left school a year later and we lived in our little rural village. I knew no other way. We learned about what interested us, which was everything. The history and nature in the valley formed a foundation for what I love today: the quiet, the rural and the old.

I was a sensitive kid and grew my hair long, feral and scruffy, and I stropped when people mistook me for a girl. I was a little know-it-all until I grew bigger and smarmier, and clever with it. My brother and father were more outdoorsy and robust while I was bookish and introvert from early on. It took me many years to learn to accept the outdoors as they did and later to love it – the cold, the heat, the physical work. I wrote stories and read books about adventure and war and heroes and kept my own company. I tormented my brother with my smart-arse little brother act. With no school there was no sense of hierarchy drilled into me. I would not defer to adults or bigger kids. I sometimes made a point of fighting with the older, stronger kids, and I’d gouge and punch and bite. Although I tried and kept trying to beat them, I almost always lost – but they remembered me.

Once, after we left school, a man from the education authority visited our house to check our progress but we set our cat on him and said nothing as it nestled and moulted white fur on his black suit. This and the written work I had assembled once I left school saw him off. I shuttled piles of filled exercise books down from my room for him to appraise, even as the old tom pawed his lap with predatory eyes. He did not return. My life after this was played out in long summers with no school to hamper my education.

The landlord of our small village was a barrister whose forebears had, allegedly, won the valley in a card game many years before from a drunker, richer, even more bloated landlord. It was here that I first experienced the power of class, though I did not understand those rigid tiers which had shaped my life. The striking thing about the people up on the hill, apart from their utter detachment from reality, was that while wealthy they were stuck trying to keep up with the real aristocracy, the real old money, whom they courted over dinners cooked by my mother.

The most condescending term for the working class would better fit these specimens: aspirational. ‘Oh, you’re so lucky,’ the lady of the manor had once told my mother, betraying her schema, ‘you can wear cheap earrings’. They pumped out three long-limbed, horse-faced daughters and finally a son whom they referred to simply as The Boy.

After living there for years we were ejected, homeless. The landlord sacked my father one day for recalcitrance unbearable in a peasant. After my father had explained that he could not be sacked by him because he did not work for him, the barrister sacked my mother more successfully. The experience of being cast out was in keeping with centuries past.

There was a hearing over the eviction, which my mother attended. It did not go unnoticed that the landlord and the judge chatted on first name terms and discussed how hard it was to get ‘good domestic staff’. After that we moved from job to job: forestry, farming, even working on a fox hunt in a house next to the pens in which the hounds would sing out the evening. In the hunting season the red-coated toffs would lord it up sipping drinks and haw-hawing astride their hunting horses, while the rural workers would doff their hats to the bastards. As I grew, my dislike of those divisions grew with me. The arrogance of the hunters seemed as inappropriate and odd as the willingness of the hunt followers to defer to these people. After a year or so we moved from the hunt to another town.

For a while I became an army cadet and enjoyed it. It was the only local club that appealed to me and so I spent two evenings a week marching around the tennis courts of a school with a bunch of other cadets and a few weekends away shooting targets and doing field exercises. I won an award for best uniform turnout and told the instructors I wanted to be a marine. That detachment was aligned with an infantry regiment called the Green Howards. We wore their badge in our berets and the instructors tried to persuade me to join that unit. ‘Or the corps,’ they said, ‘the signals, the engineers or some such. Get a trade.’ But I left the cadets when hormones started to kick in and took my issued kit with me for good measure.

By the age of fifteen darker times arrived for me and my family. My brother had moved far away to work on a fox-hunt in Devon. He had left at fifteen having acquired a National Insurance number by omission. After he had gone, life carried on the same for a while, until my mother and father split up. Life was hard, we were poor, and this took its toll. My parents argued one day when I was out at a friend’s house and my mother rang me there to tell me not to go home. I ended up moving with her to a hostel in another town, where we lived for a few months. Here I started learning how to drink, smoke weed and pop pills.

Eventually my dad left the old house and we moved back in. My mother had developed manic depression and was becoming increasingly erratic in her behaviour. I did not help matters and my spotty, squeaky-voiced adolescent rebellion got me ejected from home. I spent a night sleeping rough before going into care, and ended up back in the pill-popping, weed-smoking town we’d stayed in briefly – only now I was living in sheltered accommodation.

Rural Yorkshire was a place without provisions; the main job prospects were the dreaded Baco, the local bacon factory. Our lives were dominated by fighting with each other, trying to snare girls, talking about fighting, and seeing how many drugs our giros could buy while not starving. A few people I knew joined the army and I thought that this might be a good idea too, and then binned it. The drugs and hijinks were much more compelling at that age.

As I started to spiral out of control I had gathered a gang of miscreant, small-town friends – some of whom are now dead or in prison. We once went to a neighbouring town in search of adventure. But after an evening of the usual chavvish revelry, matters became fraught. Our de facto leader Fried Aaron pointed out that Dodgy Barry, another of our number, was renowned and had been banned from that town. In order to get rid of him, we went to the police station hoping for a lift back, but no one was there, just an unmanned phone. We rang it and the operator helpfully told us that there were no police in the area. With there being no police we decided to nick a car. Finding a Vauxhall Nova down an alley, we got it open but managed to snap the locked steering wheel with a metal bar. Having failed in this endeavour, we fled and decided to hike back the ten miles or so cross-country. Between the two towns lay Flamingo Land, a theme park and zoo. As we crossed ditches and climbed fences, great, black, steaming shapes closed in around us. We had stumbled into an enclosure full of buffalo it seemed. We fled again and made it back as the sun came up. In those shitty little towns this was the kind of stuff we did to pass the time. Our lives were full of bullshit talk about what we were going to do, and how we would escape, but very few of us did.

I fled that town owing money for pills and got my first job as a live-in waiter in a posh hotel near Rievaulx. The novelty of minimum-wage labour faded quickly. Our clientele varied between wealthy, tweed-clad shooting parties, American retirees, and so on. Not having been shaped by teachers and school hierarchies, I saw no reason to hold my tongue, and I was constantly in trouble for answering back to the management. This job lasted a few months until I got bored. By this time my mother had been sectioned and released and was beginning to recover. Meanwhile I ended up in another hostel in Norfolk. I met a girl there and we moved in together. I took up kickboxing and fell in love with it, becoming teetotal for those years and training and fighting as often as I could – trawling the martial arts magazines for weekend tournaments.

Then one day in America planes flew into towers. At the time I did not grasp the antagonism and extremism which had led to this moment, but it seemed to me the call to arms of the age; of my age. I very vaguely knew of the Taliban and Afghanistan. They were names mentioned on the television between more interesting programmes. When news of it came over the radio, the man I was working with, a Falklands veteran, nodded like a sage. The world had changed, he said.

It was around that time that the media seemed to assure me that I and all other Westerners had been attacked by brown, Muslim terrorists who liked killing women with rocks. There was no hint of a rationale leading up to the event that I could identify, they just attacked one day. Although I knew very little about these things, and they seemed so far away, they still made me very angry. I thought again about being a soldier, and for the first time it seemed like a truly moral choice rather than just a way out of boredom. But, once again, I put the feeling to one side. I had a girlfriend then and wanted to train and compete in kickboxing. Those things were my whole life at the time. I thought that maybe I would join one day. I was still young.

By twenty-two I had ambition but little sense. I felt the need to be involved in something, to be involved in something bigger than myself. I considered university – a degree in politics or writing – but I had no qualifications. I had moved to Ipswich by that time and for a while I volunteered with the local refugee group. Ipswich was a ‘catchment area’ for asylum seekers. For the first time I met people from places I’d only heard about on television: Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Somalia. I asked these people about their lives and how they came to be there in this small East Anglian town. They asked me about my life and I felt compelled to go out and be involved in the world they talked about, which in all honesty sounded as exciting as it was tough.

I befriended an Albanian Romany kid a little younger than me, and later on his family became my family. They were very fine people and like so many of these newcomers they were hospitable despite having nothing. These displaced people lived under the constant spectre of being interred in one of the refugee detention camps dotted around the country and then deported back to wherever or whatever they were fleeing. I disagreed with this: I wanted to make the world better, but at that age I didn’t want to debate at university or become one of the flaky NGO types I occasionally met at the Refugee Council. I wanted to be at the sharp end.

I repeatedly came back to the idea of the military. I would be paid and there would be the ‘three meals a day and roof over your head’ that every young man needs. I’d have a uniform and I was sure that girls would queue to swoon over me and my soldier friends. Yet, as I considered joining the military, my mother marched with the two million in London to oppose the government and its plans for war on Iraq. We did not discuss the politics of it. I held a dangerous view that a government was some kind of benign, impartial organization that looked after its citizens. I was a chump ready-made for the army, indifferent, apolitical and working class. The Ancient Greeks called anyone politically uninterested an idiot, it is the origin of the word, and back then I was an idiot by those standards. I was sure that if we were prosecuting wars, it was because the government had identified a need. It must be right. The war drums pounded out through the media and a recruiting sergeant made a convincing case. The question of right or wrong never came up.

In 2003, I wandered into an army careers office where the recruiter – a helicopter pilot with embroidered blue wings on his chest – told me all about military life. In the careers office they offered shiny brochures, tea and polished talk, and it looked a lot more interesting than what I was doing at the time. I did a psychometric test – which asked me to turn cogs the right way and that sort of thing – and scored averagely. I selected three jobs from a list: engineers, cavalry and medical corps. I was offered a place in the engineers and given a starting date for basic training. They switched all my options at the last minute and I ended up going in as a logistics specialist. They said that kind of detail was easy to change later. This was a lie. As it turned out it was extremely hard to move jobs and when I saw the officer in charge of changing trades he assured me I would have to linger around training camps for a long time. I’d spent hours outside running, readying myself. In my leaving card from the restaurant I worked at one of my colleagues wrote ‘make sure you kill some ragheads’. I told him I would and it still shames me, and I went away to learn war.

Chapter 2

I reached the small Surrey train station in the sunshine to find a horde of other recruits. You can spot them easily, even when you are one of them: we were all jittery, with cropped hair, and trying to butch up. We were led onto a bus and delivered through the gates of Army Training Regiment Pirbright to begin the Common Military Syllabus (Recruits). Rallied by an ancient, shouting corporal, we were marched through the camp to our accommodation. We were out of step and looked ridiculous; we knew nothing about anything here. Then we were fed and issued with a whole number of green and camouflaged items, many of which we never learnt the use for: a confusing mass of camouflage clothing, webbing, pouches, aide-mémoires, straps, respirators (gas masks), chemical warfare suits.

The base itself was spartan, industrial-smelling and every building and fixture seemed worn by either a lack of care or perhaps too much scrubbing, polishing and sweeping – it was hard to tell. Everything was ‘bullshit’ according to the other recruits, or at least the ones who spoke to us, because there was a hierarchy based on time spent here. The recruits who had been here the longest looked at us with scorn and mocked us. Even to the other recruits we were fresh, and to the instructors we were even lower than that. This camp turned normal people into soldiers bound for different parts of the army: privates for the logistics corps, troopers for Household Cavalry and gunners for the Royal Artillery. But at this stage we were all just called Recruit.

On our first night we were called to the central room of our block for the corporal’s amusement. We sat on the floor wide-eyed and nervous – forty new bonehead haircuts and standard issue tracksuits. ‘Okay, lads,’ the squat corporal told his captives, ‘if at any time while you’re here anybody tries to bum you, you should take one for the team!’ We laughed the laughter of sycophants. ‘And remember,’ he waggled a finger, ‘you’re only gay if you push back.’

From then on you had to march everywhere and call people by their ranks – even privates. This reminded us that we were only recruits. I only failed to do this once when I was peering through a window at a squad of recruits marching past the scoff-house (mess hall). Their tiny Scots corporal saw me, halted them perfectly and then ran to confront me. Staring up at me, he raised himself on tiptoes. ‘You eyeballin’ me, wee man?’ he slurred in his near-impenetrable Glaswegian. He was slight, wiry, and glowed alcoholically. ‘No, mate,’ I assured him, unsure of the penalty for having eyes. His face reddened. ‘Mate,’ he rasped. When I explained I was in Week One he let it go, satisfied he had beefed himself up to those present. He scuttled off and switched his abuse back to his own charges.

For the first few days the corporals were limited to shouting at us. The regulations said they couldn’t damage us until we had passed a medical. Once the medics had checked us over we were fucked about at all times as we stumbled through the fundamentals: boot polishing, uniform ironing and foot drill. Within days we started to bond by ransacking each others’ rooms dressed in gas masks, boots and full green, military long johns in the dark hours. We adopted soldierly habits, swearing, fighting and piss-taking, and the weakest were routinely turned upon.

The transformation had begun. But we were still only panicky recruits, our first names trimmed and replaced with numbers. I was now 25193317, Recruit Glenton. We were always alert to the shouts around us and always relieved when it was someone else being ripped into. Our lives and value were measured in weeks served. People would ask each other what week they were in, and this provided a hierarchy. The first serious test was to carry out a set of drill movements as a squad on the parade square. After this you could march yourself to eat bad food, rather the being marched by the corporals. This seemed like a privilege to us.

I was starting to love it, the marching and the shouting and the joking and the new friends. Even the language started to seep into us: fuck this, cunt that, and wanker everything and scrote-bag every fucker. On weekend leave I found this language jarred with the real world. Fuck it, I thought. Who needed the real world? I was going to be a soldier forever. I went back to training eager and feeling like I should have joined earlier and not wasted years in dead-end jobs in kitchens and factories. I was good at this stuff and it was little strain. Just turn up on time, pay the compliments, salute the posh blokes, call the corporals corporal and the sergeants sergeant, charge around the woods, iron your kit, get paid – easy life.

We had been taught to strip our rifles down for cleaning, except sights and a few other parts which were reserved for armourers. This would have been ‘illegal stripping’. On the ranges during our shooting test my rear sight had come loose and, as it slid free, I got increasingly inaccurate. We were not allowed to adjust them. I told our sergeant this and he told me I should have adjusted it. In the army, this kind of thing is called ‘being seen off’. This means being stitched up and is what happens in the Soldier Box, away from civilian eyes and universal sense. I failed the test, was sent back – ‘back-trooped’ – by a week to retake the test, and re-assigned to another troop that was a week behind us.

In this new group – Peninsular Troop – we were taught by infantrymen from the Guards and the Green Howards. The guardsmen were cracked: they told us that in the Household Division the word ‘yes’ did not exist. Instead, they just said ‘sarnt’ (meaning sergeant) as a matter of etiquette. It is the only approved affirmative in the Guards, they said. In addition, when they entered and left the parade square for drill practice they halted and saluted the concrete expanse; drill was religion to them. One of them told us that when we had our final passing out parade we should aim to be so crisp, so smart and so superb that our very posture and bearing seemed to bellow to the onlookers: ‘Look at me. I am chocolate. LICK ME.’

The Green Howard was from the north of England and hated southerners. He would single out a particularly southern-sounding soldier and repeatedl...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Dedication
• Contents
• Introduction: Remand, 2009
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Acknowledgments
• Copyright