From Germany to Cardiff: Patent Leather Shoes and the Bedsit of Despair
I think it was late summer 1974 when I left the frozen German forests of BAOR behind and reported to 70 Army Youth Team (Royal Signals) at Maindy Barracks in Cardiff—just 50 miles from Swansea, close enough to smell home but far enough away that it felt like a different world.
I arrived wearing what I considered to be the height of 1970s fashion: Oxford bags, patent leather black and white shoes with elevated heels, a jacket with wide lapels, and a shirt with a huge collar that could have doubled as a hang glider.
I thought I looked fantastic, like some kind of sophisticated civilian.
Lieutenant Atkinson (I believe his name was) told me later that he was not impressed in the slightest. He wondered what he was going to do with the "chav-like figure" standing in front of him.
He probably thought I was auditioning for a gangster film.
What Army Youth Teams Actually Did
Army Youth Teams (AYTs) were designed to offer practical assistance to youth organizations across the country, providing young people with access to character-building activities, both indoor and outdoor, that would otherwise be beyond their reach. Rock climbing, assault courses, survival skills, canoeing, the sort of hands-on experiences that kept kids engaged and taught them genuine life skills.
On paper, our mission was to educate young people about Army life, hopefully encouraging suitable candidates to consider military service. But the reality was more nuanced.
The Three-Fold Mission
Recruitment was certainly part of it, though we were specifically told to keep this low-key. No hard sell, no pressure tactics, just show them what we did and let them draw their own conclusions. In fact, our boss specifically ordered us not to talk about the army unless we were asked. Public relations was equally important. The Army's image needed work, and we were there to demonstrate that soldiers weren't just mindless automatons in uniform. We could teach valuable skills, work with young people, and contribute positively to communities.
Professional development for us young soldiers was perhaps the most significant benefit. As one Warrant Officer noted in the British Army Review, the teams offered "a unique opportunity to young NCOs to mature and to accept responsibility far in excess of anything which is normally asked of them at regimental duty."
Without teams like ours, as one youth club spokesman put it, many organisations would "revert to the dreary old routine of darts and shove ha'penny competitions, discos and quizzes."
The End Before It Began
Despite overwhelming support from MPs, sports councils, and youth organisations, the Army Youth Teams were scrapped around 1978—just a few years after I joined. The decision was particularly galling given the cost: just £2.5 million annually.
To put that in perspective, MPs pointed out this was equivalent to what British Steel was losing every eight hours, or what the Crown Agents had lost in a single financial scandal, one that could have funded the youth teams for a century.
Meet the Team
The other team members I can remember were Sgt Barry D, Cpl Hyden, and Cpl Merion.
Barry had been chosen to be the cook on an army expedition in the Sahara, which seemed like both an honour and a particularly challenging way to spend your leave.
Hyden was about to transfer out and join the Signal Squadron attached to 22 SAS at Hereford. He later became a PT instructor, but I heard years later that he'd died of cancer while still in his thirties, a reminder that even the fittest among us aren't invincible.
Merion was Welsh, from Llanelli, about 5 foot 5 inches but built like what we called a brick shithouse. He was basically square-shaped and extremely fit and a rugby player like me, which immediately gave us common ground.
Welcome to Cardiff: The Bedsit of Despair
There was no accommodation for me at Maindy Barracks because the place was basically empty. I was very surprised to learn from online sources that during my time there, the barracks was supposedly occupied by the Royal Regiment of Wales. I have no recollection of seeing them, the place felt like a ghost town.
Because there was no proper accommodation, Merion had found me a bedsit. Now, bedsits in the 1970s were, to say the least, awful. This one was no exception. It was damp, equipped with small electric heaters that barely worked, and featured a glass-roofed lean-to over the kitchen that reminded me uncomfortably of my Nan's house in Wern Fawr Road back in 1954.
I moved my kit in and got my head down, wondering what the next day would bring.
I soon found out.
The boss had come up with a cunning plan for how he was going to get rid of me.