Keith Watson
In ‘Rough Justice’, National Serviceman, Corporal Lloyd Freeman, tells how he and a hundred other British soldiers were involved in a tragic barn fire in Austria whilst taking part in manoeuvres with American forces. He escaped but four men died. Many others were seriously injured. The bravery of Austrian fire fighters and the speed of American rescuers and medics prevented many more deaths. The survivors knew how the fire started but were sworn to secrecy. A Military Court of Inquiry was held to discover the cause but the full details were never made public.
Fifty years on, the author, who had been one of the soldiers in the barn, obtained the Tribunal documents from the Public Record Office. His discoveries increased his determination to write ‘Rough Justice’ in which the truth is revealed, together with a realistic plot in which Lloyd Freeman and his mates from training, discover that two battle hardened soldiers intend to wreak vengeance upon the perpetrator.
Keith Watson was born in Edmonton, North London in 1936 and attended Tottenham County Grammar School prior to joining the Civil Service. At eighteen he was called up for National Service and served as an NCO with The Middlesex Regiment in Austria and Cyprus. On release he returned to work at New Scotland Yard and quickly followed the call to become a London Policeman. After four years in the Force, he decided to become a company sales representative, eventually progressing to Sales Director. He had always wanted to write a book and retirement provided the opportunity to realise his dream. Keith has had short stories published but ‘Rough Justice’ is his first book. He is currently working on a romantic novel, also set in the Fifties. Keith lives in Buckinghamshire with his wife Maureen. They have three children and eight grandchildren.
‘Rough Justice’ – snap shots only.
It was the second time in less than twenty-four hours when our vehicles returned to Mattighofen, a small town, twenty miles or so north of Salzburg. Our Sergeant Major, Jock Campbell, seemed unusually subdued. Some distance away a local clock chimed the hour. It was midday.
In front of us stood a huge barn. We had lined up here the previous afternoon, then the second-in-command had ordered our withdrawal and an all night foray. Now, after thirty hours without sleep, we were back, frozen to the depths of our boots and totally exhausted.
The barn, higher than a house, was more than forty yards long. A solid brick wall fronted it with two barred openings, high up on the left side, positioned just below the eaves. Two large, wooden, double-doors, equally spaced, provided entrances to the building but one was locked. The other gaped open invitingly and, in the depths beyond, the glow of interior lighting revealed hundreds of straw bales and the promise of warmth and comfort.
“Okay!” Jock announced, in a conciliatory tone, “When I say the word, make your way into the barn in single file and bed down in the areas allocated.” I breathed a sigh of relief; sleep at last, precious sleep. He threw his head back and stuck out his chin, his tone deadly serious, “A word of warning! The barn is filled with hay – a fire risk. Anyone smoking will face a court-martial. Right! In you go.”
Powerful lights in the cavernous roof illuminated the interior, as big as a dance hall, providing storage facilities for the previous summer’s harvest. On the ground floor, our location, bales of straw were stacked two to three feet deep, with an abundance of loose strands strewn all around and a huge pile of hay, nine feet high, stacked just inside the door. A flight of wooden steps led to an upper floor where more loose straw was piled high.
Sleep consumed us!
Laughter! Spirited laughter interrupted my reverie and then, BANG!
I awoke trembling – was it an attack? More laughter! My ears were ringing as I turned on my side to see Nigel, sitting up, alarmed. “What the fuck was that?”
“Sounded like a thunderflash.”
“That’s what I thought.” Next moment, we heard, VROOMFF!
“Fire! Fire! Fire! Get outside now! Pick up your weapons and get out!” It was the Sergeant Major, his tone urgent.
“Hey look! Here come the cavalry!” Shouted Nigel, as the clack, clack, clack of an American helicopter was heard overhead before dropping down behind the barn then another. The first flew back over us with what looked like bodies on stretchers strapped to the skids beneath. Sergeant Legg, reappeared, his face drained of colour, “Listen here the lot of you - if anyone asks questions about the fire, you know nothing! Understand?”
It was dusk when we left Mattighofen for the last time to the mournful sound of slowly tolling bells, our destination Camp Roeder, an American barracks in the Salzburg region, where our American allies were already preparing to receive the remnants of our grieving company.
