HOUDINI CONNECTIONS
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INITIATIVE
TEST
A
story from real life
by
PROLOGUE
Kidnapping somebody is not as easy as it looks on TV. I know, because I've
tried it. Kidnap scenarios are high on the list of turn-ons for a lot of the
kink-heads I've hung out with most of my life. The planning and the risks
involved can all be part of the hype - but on a practical level, snatching
somebody needs to be taken very seriously.
On a psychological level, that's a different story. Although great as a fantasy,
in real life to be forcibly abducted when you're not expecting it, without
knowing why or what might happen next is a scary business. I can tell you
that from experience, also. Even though I knew who my abductors were and that
I wouldn't end up dead, it was an intensely unnerving business which I seriously
didn't enjoy. After forty years I can still describe what happened moment
by moment, move by move of my captors, chunks of dialogue and even the structure
of the knots they tied. Not because I got any pleasure from it (at the time)
but because the intensity is something I haven't experienced since.
SETTING THE SCENE
In the nineteen fifties, conscription into National Service in Britain meant
leaving the job you'd probably only just started and spending two years in
a totally alien environment. And, for most of the young men whose lives it
interrupted, it was pointless. World War Two was over; fighting in 'Trouble
spots' (which did not include Ireland) was the province of career servicemen.
Sensible National Service draftees spent their Call-up learning a trade or
continuing their education.
I already had four successful years as a theatre technician behind me at the
age of twenty-one. Immediately before Call-up I was 'number one' in control
of a complicated stage production with a cast, orchestra and crew of over
100. I had learned how to 'manage' and enjoyed having the authority. But,
for my compulsory National Service I decided to make it as easy on myself
as possible. I chose Air Force because it was considered 'superior' to Army,
and deliberately refused officer training because I wanted no responsibility
or future career from it. The idea was to stay anonymous, stay out of trouble
and enjoy whatever opportunities came my way.
The tough initial training period was a welcome change from my previous employment.
Never in my life had I been allowed to get muddy or dirty or play rough games.
I was fit enough when I joined, but enjoyed becoming fitter. In the language
of RAF-speak, choice of a trade for short-term non-career Oiks was limited.
In my documents, intimate details of my previous career status and social
status (extremely class conscious, the Royal Air Force), were put before a
panel of Prunes (Officers). They decided that, in spite not wanting to become
an officer, I was a decent-sort-of-chap and assigned to RAF Signals. I'm not
sure how it would have affected their evaluation if my documents had revealed
the fact that I had also spent ten years as an amateur escapologist and was
a card-carrying masochist.
Training in Signals = telephones, telex, ciphers and code, and Air Traffic
Control. A gentlemanly business for the men and women involved; clean, comfortable
and cushy, especially as I was posted to a non-operational base (no aeroplanes!)
in a not too remote country area. Duties left enough time and energy to enjoy
facilities on offer, such as occasional off-base physical training courses
which permitted extra time away from humdrum routine; rock climbing, mountain
rescue, air sea rescue, under-water rescue, unarmed combat. New skills and
new challenges. I wasn't the best at any of these pursuits but did earn a
reputation for having a shot at anything physical. The opportunities were
there and it was better than codes and ciphers. The physical training instructors
on the base were a tough bunch, but generous to those who appreciated their
skills. Predictably, they were all that odd blend of sadists-and-masochist
under one skin, born to challenge and eager to be challenged. But, however
much I was tempted, my skills as a would-be Houdini were prudently kept undisclosed.
Interestingly, a special advanced course for combined forces was also run
by these training instructors. Not exactly SAS but selected career army, navy
and air force hard-nuts were invited to visit for a 4 week intensive course.
I volunteered for the course but wasn't eligible, being National Service.
Perhaps just as well because their physical skills were way out of my league!
These elite squads who came and went were generally know as Turks because
they spent their entire time there in full dark combat gear, and were a law
unto themselves - or rather, to the tough officers specially trained to keep
them in line.
My request did, however, bring one advantage. It persuade my Signals Section
commander to promote me to corporal rather than risk losing me permanently
to more energetic employment. This allowed me to use the bar also used by
the physical training staff, who were mainly corporals or sergeants. The down-side
was that my promotion demanded I should become chief assistant to the sergeant
in charge of Codes and Ciphers. And this is what caused me to become a target
and get unceremoniously abducted.
THE SNATCH
Part of the short sharp course for each intake of Turks was a final Initiative
Test. That's how I came to be snatched one damp November night smack in the
middle of the main compound. I was off-duty, heading out of the NCO's bar
because a rowdy drinking session was building up. Two beefy Turks were suddenly
standing immediately in front of and behind me as though we'd been buddies
for years. Passers-by passed by without a second glance at three men apparently
in intimate conversation. Anyway, nobody messed with Turks. I had only had
one drink, but two oppressively close rock solid jaws quietly convinced me
that they could quickly make me look drunk to the point of falling over. They
instructed me to accompany them behind a shed. This I did, almost without
my feet touching the floor. There, pushed against a low metal fence, my mouth
was taped before I'd even thought of making a noise.
'Swift and silent' I evaluated mentally before I was suddenly uncomfortably
bent almost double over the fence. While my feet were being kicked wide apart,
the turk in front pressed down on the top of my spine. This left the man behind
me free to begin roping my wrists efficiently behind my back while pressing
me into the fence with the full weight of his body. He took his time. My experience
as an Escape Artist automatically swung into play as I mentally followed the
progress of an efficient square lash taking shape in the middle of my back.
Like being in a car accident, it all seemed to be happening in slow motion.
'Hands parallel with the waist,' I thought; 'Palms against forearms; Unusual',
I thought as a fist from behind me gripped my hair and stood me upright before
a vicelike arm circled my throat.
I watched the stars and felt the rain on the part of my face that wasn't covered
with adhesive tape, while the ropes from my wrists were knotted in front of
my waist and then systematically run through both elbows pulling them forward
before the rope was knotted with emphatic finality below my rib cage.
'Impossible to reach,' I decided calmly as my neck was released and I stared
mutely across the fence into a pair of piercing steel blue eyes .
Suddenly I was looking at the floor again, collar gripped firmly from behind.
The athletic figure ahead of me was stooping to produce something from a back-pack
behind the fence. I anticipated a sack over my head as everything went dark
- but my head emerged out of the other side and I was standing up wearing
an army rain poncho-type ground sheet. For the record, it wasn't the sort
of lightweight kit they use nowadays. Back then a groundsheet poncho was thick
khaki rubberised canvas with a tall collar but no hood; at front and back
it reached to below the knees, at the sides to below the finger-ends and had
metal eyelets all round the edge for when used as a ground sheet. It completely
covered my roped arms I noted as the grim-faced turk in front carefully adjusted
the high collar so it easily hid my taped mouth. The body weight which had
been clamping me against the fence withdrew slightly but a mouth, dangerously
close to my ear, advised me to keep my legs well spread or walk like a duck
for a week.
Now, with two determined-to-pass-their-initiative-test Turks looming on either
side of me, they quietly explained the differences between achieving their
aims the 'hard way' or the 'easy way'. I decided to co-operate (at least in
the short term). This would involve us walking together like three merry fellows
who'd already had a few drinks in the Club and were now heading past the guard
post, out of the main gate and off towards the village pub.
My mind raced ahead to the opportunities which this might afford. Security
on this easy-going camp was far from strict (No IRA terrorist threat in those
days). Foot traffic in and out of the gate was continuous because officer's
quarters, married quarters and the local pub were all only a short walk from
the main compound. Ever hopeful, I realised that most of the guards knew me
by sight because they also used the gym and I'd been on courses with them.
With any luck 'Big Toby' or one of his mates would be manning the gates and
call me over for a chat.
As two more rain-ponchos appeared and were slipped over two bullet heads,
their woollen caps (which distinguish these hard-nut visitors from the more
conventional RAF personnel) were firmly pulled down around their ears and
eyebrows. My distinctive RAF cap, bearing its flashy new Codes & Ciphers
badge, symbol of my trusted status as knower-of-codes, was retrieved from
the mud. It disappeared into the rucksack and a woollen cap was crammed firmly
over my ears until it almost covered my eyes. When this was arranged to their
satisfaction my attention was drawn to the fact that ends of the rope at my
front were quite long; long enough to disappear under the ponchos of the man
on either side of me. Taking up the slack they neatly demonstrated that they
had considerable control. They carefully explained that one false move as
we passed the Guard Room would result in my suddenly falling over amid much
merry laughter. I would then be hoisted onto a brawny shoulder (hanging rather
limp) and be carried out of the gate while the third member of our party remained
at the guard post to explain how I (another turk) was the looser of a wager
and about to be dunked in the local brook. Our boys on guard duty had learned
not to get involved with the carryings-on of these highly volatile visitors
who live life by different rules.
INTO THE DARKNESS
Reason prevailed and I walked out of the gate flanked by two walls of glistening
khaki rain-cape, who waved cheerily to Big Toby as he munched a doughnut and
watched TV. Out into the soggy night we walked. Our sudden detour behind a
hedge and into a field went completely unnoticed by man nor beast. Only when
we were safely off the main road did they let go of their lead strings and
reveal The Plan.
For their test they had been ordered to capture and transport someone (?)
from point A to point B, fifty miles away with no transport provided and deliver
the prisoner to an 'enemy' camp. I began to think I should have fought harder
in the first place. Somehow they knew about my recent training in advanced
code and cipher technology and decided this would score extra points with
their evaluators.
Technically, they had planned well. Two more metal framed rucksacks had previously
been stashed in the field. Determined that I would carry one and not give
them any trouble, they described in graphic detail their plan B, which would
involve them dragging a sack with me inside it over the entire distance if
they failed to hitch a lift. Their alternative (plan A) was for me to behave
myself and walk with them. Having never been that much of a masochist, I agreed
to the rucksack - because it meant having my arms unroped, I thought. Wrong!
The metal back-pack frame fitted neatly over my bound wrists and the shoulder/waist/chest
straps of the frame secured even further the already escape-proof roping.
With the rain poncho back in place and collar up, they were ready to move
out into the rainy night, even if I wasn't. However, I've always been an optimist.
Ever hopeful, I decided to wait for any opportunity that might arise. It didn't.
We covered about twenty miles before dawn, when they decided to take a rest
and some food. For me it was a relief to have the tape off my face. We were
in a field far from any houses, so they weren't exactly taking a risk. My
arms were totally numb and I advised them (not mentioning my special knowledge
of circulation loss) that the rope should come off, at least for a while.
They agreed and I was duly undone; a process achieved without them taking
off the back pack. As I gradually regained the use of my arms they showed
me a duffel bag which could easily and quickly be pulled over my head and
roped at the waist if I made any 'silly move'. Food ready, we sat down to
eat, me with hands free but rucksack attaching me to a tree. I couldn't stand
up let alone go anywhere - so I ate.
They amused themselves while we rested, describing how two duffel bags with
one over my head to waist and the other from feet to waist, the two could
be then laced together. I tentatively suggested that such a sack might draw
attention to itself if it wriggled about. They considered the problem logically
and decided that if the sack was being dragged along over bumpy ground the
wriggling wouldn't be noticed. And, if they dragged the sack along the bottom
of a ditch through fields, no one would be there to notice. And if they dragged
it along a ditch with water in it, I wouldn't be wriggling for long because
I'd start to co-operate. I began to suspect they would pass their Initiative
Test.
THE TRIALS CONTINUES:
It had stopped raining so they stowed their ponchos before moving ahead -
but mine stayed on, covering my arms which were now strapped firmly down the
sides of the metal back pack (I made a mental note that this was a useful
piece of equipment). My mouth had been re-taped, having failed to convince
them that I wouldn't draw attention to my plight if left un-gagged. Now being
daylight, the high collar of the rain-cape hid my taped mouth.
Their caution was justified because we soon met a couple of farm workers who
happily stopped to chat with three tired trainee squaddies (well, chat with
two of them). They helpfully suggested a quicker route to our destination
which would take us through the next couple of villages rather than around
them. As we walked on, my captors discussed the possibility of taking this
shorter route - and I began to speculate on opportunities to at least embarrass
them if not totally destroy their hopes of a successful exercise.
Maybe it was something in my walk or the glint in my eyes, but they began
to discuss the risks involved in taking me through a village. But they seemed
to relish the challenge and began to speculate about seriously uncomfortable
means of preventing me from wrecking their project. Their most convincing
argument was that they had 24 hours in which to deliver me - and we'd only
done six so far - and our destination could be reached in a further four,
maybe less. Pushed against a tree they explained into my face a few of the
things they could do to/with me in the available extra fourteen hours. You've
heard of good cop/bad cop interrogation techniques - well, these were bad
cop/worse cop competing with each other to suggest more effective deterrents.
They reached a decision to (A) demonstrate their ability to stay in control,
and (B) take a look around the village without having to keep an eye on me.
An army sleeping bag and a few tent-pegs later, they were free to take as
long as it took to explore the village and 'Have a couple of drinks when it's
Opening Time.'
I was left under a hedge with nothing for company but an occasional rabbit
and my thoughts. At that point in my life, with ten years of Houdini interest
behind me, I was experiencing the situation on a level completely unsuspected
by my two captors - but I did begin to wonder if something I may have said
around the Physical Training Instructors might have resulted in me being targeted
as victim in this particular exercise.
In fact I had, on one occasion when socialising with the PTIs (Physical Training
Instructors), tentatively brought up the subject of training medical personnel
to deal with violent patients. They'd told me that the RAF Regiment (the Air
Force ground fighting force and hard nuts) were usually called in, but the
medical orderlies could earn promotion if they became proficient in unarmed
combat - and to prove they could physically subdue and restrain a violent
patient was part of the promotion test. The PTIs had admitted they trained
the orderlies and evaluated the tests. But they themselves were too skilled
to play the violent patients in tests.
This dubious honour, they'd told me with relish, usually was offered to any
poor sod who was up on charges for minor misdemeanours. They were offered
reduction of sentence if they, for just ten minutes would play the part of
a mentally unhinged and violent patient. While offering this alternative to
six or eight weeks of jankers (punishment duty such as tedious cookhouse and
other unpleasant tasks plus hourly check-ins at the guard room) the ten minutes
of no-holds-barred violence sounded like a good deal. Not so! The orderlies
knew if they failed to come out on top they had failed the course; if they
succeeded they got promotion and a weekend pass. The volunteer nutcases weren't
told until it was too late to back out, that it was in their best interest
to put up a good struggle. Because, if they got subdued, the orderlies could
keep them 'under-wraps' for 48 hours and were free to get their own back for
any minor damage caused during the contest; perhaps using the opportunity
to practice their skills with splints, plaster bandages, enemas and catheters.
The PTIs, in telling me this had sniggered and asked if I'd like a shot at
being one of the contestants - and I'd firmly rejected the offer - which didn't
mean to say I'd mentally closed the door on the possibility.
As time ticked by under my hedge, neatly wrapped up and pegged down, my mind
went back to other occasions during mountain rescue exercises, and on a parachute
jump course, and a diving course. In each incident the instructors had humorously
demonstrated the little tricks traditionally played on recruits. All under
the guise of harmless manly fun, trainees were left hung up in training harness,
the winch unaccountably jammed - left unable to get out of a diving suit,
all the instructors suddenly off doing more important things - lashed naked
to the goal posts when everybody went off to the showers because I had declined
to join the section rugby side. Each incident had been part of what seemed
to be paying the price for belonging to the 'inner circle' - perhaps my enjoyment
rather than resigned acceptance of it all had blown my cover.
How long my abductors were gone for I had no idea, but I had pee'd before
they got back. I couldn't exactly tell them because they didn't take the gag
off. However, it's amazing what body language can achieve even when bundled
up and pegged down. I grunted urgently to indicate that I needed to tell them
something - and they asked what - offering several interpretations to my frantic
grunting.
"Need the bog?"
Nod, nod, nod.
"Shit or slash?" (British army jargon).
"Mur - umph," was my reply.
"Shit or slash? One nod for shit, two nods for slash."
I nodded once, very emphatically.
"He needs to crap, Charlie."
"You think so, Robert?"
"Looks like it, Charles."
"I'm not so sure that's what he's saying, Robert. I think you've misunderstood.
I think he's saying we should let him out of the bag so he'll have a better
chance of spoiling our plans - isn't that right, Sunshine? We know your little
games, Stewart. All about your little games. We're surprised you're even still
here because from what we were told, you think you're something of a Houdini.
Well, we've decided we've proved you're not - and there's a weekend pass for
us starting soon as we've delivered you and finished our test - so we have
plans for getting you to our Depot quick as we can, right Bob?"
"Right you are, Charlie? - so, you stay in the sack, Sunshine and you
stay gagged - and if you crap you crap - because at this stage of the game
we're not taking any unnecessary risks. Am I correct, Charles?"
"Indubitably, Robert. We're officer material - and know all about crap."
"But in case you think we've done with the Houdini-bit, we haven't. Charlie
and I worked out a little plan over our bacon and eggs in the village caff.
We convinced a couple of local lads that our training mission is to transport
a piece of very heavy equipment across country and deliver it to an army depot
(not Air Force base, you'll note). We made them feel very sorry for us - so
once we get you to the village they've promised to give us a lift to the base.
Isn't that generous of them - and you're not going to embarrass us, are you,
Stewart. That isn't a question. You are going to be an inanimate object, Stewart;
a piece of mysterious equipment - a Top Secret - Thing. And we are going to
carry you, comme ça," he said producing a chunky wooden pole.
"One carrying pole, requisitioned for the purpose."
PACKED AWAY
The following half hour is burned into my memory. I was assisted into a kneeling
position still inside the soggy sleeping bag and 'invited' to straighten my
arms down my side and reach for my ankles. In this position I was expertly
roped so I would remain there. From experience I knew that in that position
the next however many hours were going to be excruciatingly uncomfortable,
if not dangerous. As if reading my mind one of the two oppressors reassured
me; "Don't worry, Stewart, we've decided two hours top whack before you're
delivered and signed for. We'll make sure they let you out immediately, rather
than keep you there so they can show you to their friends, won't we Bob?"
"Well, we'll try Charlie, but you know what these army types are like.
Not like those nice polite Brylcream Boys in the RAF."
There was little time to dwell on this prospect because surprising things
were happening. Two metal-framed rucksacks, still lumpy with their contents,
were being lashed along either side of my body. During this complicated process
it was helpfully explained to me that this was, in essence, a camouflage exercise.
The shape of the eventual package must not even hint at its 'top secret' contents.
The third rucksack frame was fitted above my head and shoulders in such a
way that any head movement would be inside the frame. Found objects were gathered
from the woods, anything to mask the internal shape. From one of the rucksacks
a plentiful supply of rope appeared. And so the covering of the package began.
Now, I'm good at wrapping awkward shaped packages, but these two lads really
got into the spirit of the thing. With three waterproof poncho/groundsheets
and unlimited rope to play with, they took their time to prepare what I'm
sure must have looked like a very plausible piece of heavy equipment. I had
absolutely no way of knowing.
The rolling from side to side to get the thick covering on every side and
roped to keep it (and me) firmly in place, actually helped to postpone the
inevitable cramping which I knew the kneeling position would produce. Luckily,
I was younger then and fit, but I was very nervous that there would not be
enough air inside the waterproof covering which was rapidly becoming more
securely roped. But, they'd thought it through and, speaking loudly into the
dense covering, reassured me that air was available through two carefully
concealed openings - which, they then demonstrated could be closed at will
from outside. They confidently stated that they expected me to play along.
Another factor was how the lifting and shifting would intensify pressure on
my already aching (and sticky) body. A running commentary from outside kept
me informed that the lifting pole was ready to be tested.
Surprisingly, they'd calculated well. My suspended weight didn't too much
increase the lateral pressure. I swayed a lot, but they soon let me know they
were 'just testing'. I had fears of vomiting into the gag - and the situation
is not one I would, in the light of experience, recommend. But I was in no
position to argue and was preoccupied, steeling myself to survive the rest
of the journey - plus the embarrassment of arrival at The Depot which would
inevitably be enjoyed by many - an RAF man captive and humiliated in a Royal
Engineers army depot - and there was no hope that news of the ordeal would
not get back to my home base before I did.
The penultimate development was to learn (hear) that the offer of a ride to
our destination included the truck meeting us at the end of the lane, well
outside the village. So, the journey on the pole was relatively short. But
the encounter between the four guys at the lane end was much more eventful
than anticipated. Of course I could only hear indistinctly, but it soon became
obvious that the two Turks were deliberately talking loudly so I could get
the gist of what was going on. They thanked the two locals for their help
and described the effort of having carried the 'equipment' over fields for
more than thirty miles. The owners of the van were impressed, asking how heavy
and what was in the package.
The elaborate evasiveness of 'Charlie & Bob' seemed calculated to stimulate
curiosity. The dialogue need not be repeated here in detail, but questions
about weight; fragility; whether the package had to be kept upright - all
seemed to invite further curiosity. Hands roamed the covering - more than
two pairs. It was obvious, as the voices of the two locals also became louder
that, whether by sign or prior information, they knew what was inside the
package.
Hands roamed and groped and probed around the covering and my body, as voices
loudly speculated on what the package could possibly contain. Tilted first
to one side and then the other, I was systematically allowed to rest on all
six sides as the feeling and squeezing intensified and the 'over-acted' vocal
commentary continued. This slightly unnatural dialogue took a decidedly sinister
turn as compliments on the efficiency of the packaging began to dwell on the
fact that it was seriously waterproof. The army guys elaborated on the fact
that it had rained for the first twenty miles they had carried the package.
The first voice to say it needed to pee was one of the locals. The two army
guys agreed that it might be wise before lifting such a heavy load into the
truck - and all agreed. Whether the covering was fully waterproof or not I
had no way of knowing in advance. Being inside a waterproof sleeping bag I
suppose it didn't really matter - but it mattered to me at the time. Whether
by accident or design I was lying on my back which was more comfortable than
kneeling, and my head was almost inside the front rucksack - so however many
gallons rained down on the package, mercifully, I was proof against it - but
it was situation totally outside my experience or taste. I was in no position
to complain either then or later.
They tired of their fun and handled the package onto the truck carefully,
discussing as they did, whether to take the short or long route, the 'good
road' or the 'bad road'. They discussed at unnecessary length whether they
should lash the cargo down. "Wouldn't do to have it fall off the back
at forty miles an hour."
But Charlie and Bob rode with me in what I discovered was an open pick-up.
I was kneeling again, their boots braced against my sides (or, more accurately,
against the two rucksacks). They talked to me during the journey, thanking
me for my co-operation, promising to keep at least some of the details to
themselves - but suggesting that as soon as we arrived at the depot they should
get the guys at the Transport Pool to hose the package down. Bob decided it
might be more practical to do it at a petrol station on the way - because
they had a couple of extra pairs of willing hands to help with the process.
The two locals enthusiastically accepted the additional opportunity to play
games. I assumed it was Bob and Charlie who managed to hose the jet of water
in through both breathing holes just for good measure. Eventually, the van
delivered us right into the army depot - where the ensuing scenes need not
be remembered.
*****
I've enjoyed re-telling this true if unbelievable story after nearly forty years. It was an event I never lived down during the rest of my Air Force career. But one positive result was that, after getting back to my own Unit, I was from then on referred to by every man (and woman) on the base as 'Houdini', a situation which brought with it a few added bonus opportunities, such as being invited to help plan 'escape and evasion' exercises, and finding out more from the physical training instructors about fighting someone into a strait jacket. In fact, several times I did get to play the part of an unwilling patient, before my term in the RAF ended and I was allowed back into the Real World.
END
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