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The autumn of 1981 was an uncertain time for those, like me, who believed that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) posed a real threat to the geographical integrity of Western Europe. Ronald Reagan had recently defeated Jimmy Carter and become President of the United States and Leonid Brezhnev was slowly going GaGa as the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. The Soviets had invaded Afghanistan a few years earlier
and bellicosity was the order of the day. In the UK, the Thatcher Government in its first term had followed economic policies that began to tackle the economic malaise that afflicted the country but these were early days – it was not at all certain that she, let alone the Conservative Government, would survive. |
Carter tried to befriend Brezchev much to Reagan's amusement
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It was in this context that I rolled up to the Wimpey Bar underneath the huge neon signs in Piccadilly Circus (today, a Barclays Bank) to meet a man named George Miller, a British Representative of the NTS, the Alliance of Russian Solidarists, which was a movement founded in the 1930s that operated underground in the USSR but openly in the rest of the world with a network of Russian exiles. George was a bear of a man with a big dark bushy beard. We had arranged to meet in this conveniently accessible burger bar in central London and as I entered I could easily identify George. Although we had met only once or twice before at gatherings of The Federation of Conservative Students (FCS) of which I was an active member (see history of FCS by the great Brian Monteith here), George had chosen a table on a raised part of the restaurant with a great view of the entrance (so that he could keep on eye on who was coming and going I assumed later). I shook George's hand and we went up, bought our respective meals and took our seats - my back to the entrance! I was a little unsure about the purpose of the meeting other than it was something to do with travelling to the Soviet Union. Since I was just starting my second year at the University of Aberdeen studying a Joint Honours degree in International Relations and Economics it sounded right up my street.
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George explained that inside the Soviet Union access to western information sources such as the London Times, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, Newsweek and Time magazines was limited to privileged members of the Communist Party (no Internet around then). NTS had a programme where they sponsored private individuals to go to the Soviet Union and disseminate précised articles from these publications discretely printed on the blue pre-stamped correspondence self-sealing envelopes that were routinely used to for postal communications in the USSR at that time. The usual consignment to be smuggled was 100 pieces per person.
George noted (what foresight he had!) that increased access to information would play a key part in bringing about change in the Soviet Union and that this sort of operation had three effects: a) it confused the KGB secret police since they spent time scouring the City trying to find the printing presses that produced these letters (I believe the printing was done in West Germany); b) it caused anxiety to individuals connected to the KGB who were likely to unexpectedly receive this material since the addressee's were a random sample of the Leningrad telephone directory; and c) the printed material had a 'multiplier effect' as it was often passed around by recipients to others as something of interest if nothing else. In my case however, George had another idea! He and his colleagues had been thinking of ways in which to contrast the rights to freedom of speech that the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) had to disseminate their materials and engage in discussions in the UK with the stunted rights of democracy campaigners in the USSR. |
The subversive information I carried was printed on blue all-in-one letters like this but pre-stamped with Soviet markings. I had 100 of these letters carried in my boots. I picked up blank resupplies of the envelopes by purchasing them in small quantities from the Cigarette Kiosks dotted around the City.
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His grand scheme was for me plus another to go to Red Square in Moscow and hand out anti-Soviet missile material. By getting arrested and detained distributing 'peace' literature in Red Square campaigners here could then show what the West was up against in dealing with a totalitarian regime (Red Square equalled Trafalgar Square in this analogy). I was personally a little apprehensive about such a trip. I was an enthusiastic ideologue but not an idiot. "I suppose", I said, "it depends on who I would be going with". At this point George smiled, looked over my shoulder towards the entrance, and said: "Well the person we have in mind is a chap called Harry Phibbs and I think that this is him arriving now." I turned, looked and saw a gangly looking young guy waving frantically, wearing plus fours, standing in the entrance, the sunlight of Piccadilly Circus at his back making him look much akin to a character out of The Forsyte Saga. I knew immediately that I was more of a 'Blue Letter' type of guy. Harry ended up going to Red Square and was arrested. Meanwhile, I was off to Leningrad.
Rubber, Plastic and the Big Itch!
According to my 'minder' Alex, every room in the Hotel Leningrad was bugged.
I left for Leningrad from Gatwick airport during winter of 1981/82 having had about six months of monthly meetings with my 'minder' who was called Alex. Alex took me through the NTS standard operation procedures (SOPs) for making such a trip and answered a lot of my dumb questions. He told me how to spot if I was being followed ('shadowed') by the KGB. I had to travel from Scotland to London for these meetings but learned about different types of 'shadowing' (such as the aggressive 'blocking shadowing' which meant that the KGB were onto me and wanted me to know). It was also interesting learning about these 'on the ground' activities of the secret police since my international relations tutor at Aberdeen University at the time was Professor Paul Wilkinson who the first international relations professor holding a Chair in Terrorsim in the UK. After tutorials I would often see the Professor check underneath and around his car for IEDs so I was attuned to be aware of your surroundings even in the UK (I got used to doing this myself during a later tour as an army officer in Northern Ireland). I should be aware Alex said, that every room in the hotel I was staying in was bugged. He also noted that the 'listening operation' was run from the entire 'first' floor of the hotel. According to Alex, if I went outside the hotel at night and looked at it I would notice that the 'first' floor windows were slightly different from the rest (much smaller) and that the lights were not shaded. Sure enough when I arrived I did this and noticed the harsh lights were light bulbs. It was also interesting to see that the customer hotel elevator did not stop at the first floor - there was simply no button for this option.
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My mission as set by Alex was clear enough. I was to travel to the different ends of the Leningrad metro system and dispose of no more than five of my Blue Letters at a time in random mail boxes that I came across as I was walking about. The reason for this was so that when the post box was emptied by the unsuspecting postie, a 100 of the things would not tumble out together as this would be suspicious, even though the hand written addresses on the letters were written by different people. Getting the letters into the USSR was a simple affair according to Alex. I was to wear short Wellington Boots, covered by my trousers and stuff 50 letters into each of them. If I was stopped at Gatwick getting on the plane it was non-issue (unless I was publicly exposed to other passengers) as such correspondence was of no concern for British security. In any case, I was advised to do the letter boot stuffing once I had cleared airside security and was about to board the aircraft.
The only way to get to the USSR as a private citizen in 1981/82 was through a prepaid fully chaperoned tour with the state owned travel agency - InTourist. They secured all visas and made travel arrangements. We paid up and I became an individual member of one of their 'groups'. I travelled to Gatwick and it was as I waited by the boarding gate that the butterflies started to get to me. As instructed I had visited the men's loo and stuffed my boots with the letters which were themselves packed in plastic carrier bags to protect them from sweat from my feet and ankles. |
My mission was to travel to the of end the lines on the Leningrad subway, find mail boxes and post five 'Blue Letters' in each. I chose to go north and south and made sure I wasn't followed. It was all a bit James Bond like. I was instructed by my 'minder' to start each trip after leaving the hotel by going to the very crowded central Leningrad rail station and try to lose any 'tails'.
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This was all fine except that my ankles and feet were starting to itch like mad, no doubt aggravated by all the plastic in the short Wellington rubber boots under my trouser legs. The flight was being called and the itching got worse. I knew I would never make the four hour flight in this condition and so went back to a cubicle in the loo, ditched the plastic bags and wrapped the Blue Letters in pink pages from a copy of the Financial Times I had bought at the airport. This solved the problem and I have been an avid reader since!
I hurried to board the flight, was conscious that I was the last one on and sunk back in my seat with a copy of The Economist (I was advised by Alex to leave all 'western' reading material on the plane before entering the USSR). We took off and I dozed off. I awoke with a start and had a bad feeling, a premonition, that something was wrong but couldn't figure out exactly what. It then dawned on me that in my struggle to stop itching, I had left my big, military surplus dark navy RAF coat on a seat at the boarding gate back at Gatwick. I was pissed off at this development since I had prepared this coat meticulously for the trip, replacing the RAF crested faux silver buttons with plain flat blue ones so that I would fit in as I walked the outskirts of Leningrad. I had to think of alternatives since there was no turning back. The only alternative I could think of took the form of a reversible down 'puffa' jacket that I planned to wear underneath the RAF coat. Would it be warm enough? Would it look suspicious if I arrived in Leningrad without a coat? I was about to find out...!
I hurried to board the flight, was conscious that I was the last one on and sunk back in my seat with a copy of The Economist (I was advised by Alex to leave all 'western' reading material on the plane before entering the USSR). We took off and I dozed off. I awoke with a start and had a bad feeling, a premonition, that something was wrong but couldn't figure out exactly what. It then dawned on me that in my struggle to stop itching, I had left my big, military surplus dark navy RAF coat on a seat at the boarding gate back at Gatwick. I was pissed off at this development since I had prepared this coat meticulously for the trip, replacing the RAF crested faux silver buttons with plain flat blue ones so that I would fit in as I walked the outskirts of Leningrad. I had to think of alternatives since there was no turning back. The only alternative I could think of took the form of a reversible down 'puffa' jacket that I planned to wear underneath the RAF coat. Would it be warm enough? Would it look suspicious if I arrived in Leningrad without a coat? I was about to find out...!
Yo! The Tie Pin Fashionista! Ya!
Leningrad Airport in Soviet times on a nice day! In winter it snowed a lot and wasn't as busy as it is today.
There was no going back to sleep for the rest of the flight. We were coming into land at approximately 1600hrs, Leningrad time, and darkness was falling. The pilot happily announced an unimaginable ground temperature with light snow. When we landed I hauled my messenger bag down from the overhead locker and put on my puffa jacket with the beige canvass pockets on the outside. Ironically, I figured that the watchers at immigration would expect me to be dressed in an outfit befitting London and therefore they might feel I would be less of a nuisance at this stage if I was notably 'western looking'. As a student travelling on Scottish buses to and from my digs, I normally looked like a sack of shit: unshaven, wearing an over washed turtle neck, faded jeans (proper faded ones derived through wear and tear not as sold by the shop!) and Doc Martens but today had worn a shirt and tie out of respect for this occasion. I had even shaved! Bought two weeks before the trip from Marks and Spencer, these formal shirts came with fashionable plastic gold coloured tie pins with screw ends that fitted through the perforated holes on the shirt collars underneath the tie.
When we got to the international baggage hall I waited with the rest of tour party for the bags to come through. It looked like all the immigration/customs officers had the same idea since place was completely empty of other passengers. I guess this is what passed for excitement at Leningrad international! All (approximately 12-15) of them in grey uniforms were gathered around one of their colleague's official desks clucking like a bunch of hens waiting for us lemmings to pass through. I thought about taking a photo of them but Alex had told me that this was an absolute No-No. Getting caught taking photographs at the airport would see me spend a night in the clink and if they found the letters in addition, well, who knows? Instead, I looked around and took in my fellow groupies. Two girls and I were definitely the youngest of the bunch. The rest were mainly middle aged or elderly couples. I convinced myself that my Aran sweater and puffa jacket combo didn't really stand out too much from the rest of the passengers although to a man, woman, young, middle aged and old they all had coats of some kind! Not many of the men were wearing ties either. Strike one up for the 'sack of shit' fashonistas!
To my consternation my bag come onto the conveyer belt first. Not only that but it seemed to go round and round in
isolation for ages. I realise now that this may have been because I got to Gatwick a bit late. LIFO was kicking in. Last in First Out. But Alex was clear: wait for others to go first. DO NOT BE FIRST! After seeing my bag swing by me a fourth time I thought this SOP was not sustainable, picked it up and headed towards the Hens. This is one of life's moments when you think: "Well, at least this is not boring!". And it surely wasn't. I was in for a penny and a pound. I had decided to be completely confident about the forthcoming transaction and walked purposefully to meet the uniformed group and stuck an arm out with passport in hand. The man who was hosting the party took it and demanded that I put my suitcase and bag on the metal table in front of him. I hoisted both items up and opened them as instructed. With the others behind him he rifled through my underwear and spare shirts.
As he was doing this, the clucking of the group seem to increase and I became aware of how they were all intently looking at me. A thousand things went through my mind. What had given me away? Was I sweating? It then stuck me that the group were talking about my plastic gold tie pin. Clearly this was a new one to them. In the end one actually pointed at me, or it, and the clucking continued until an authoritative one looked around and saw other passengers forming a line. He barked a few orders, the group dispersed. The man rifling through my shreddies stopped and ordered me to zip up and move on. I didn't need to be told a second time. I passed through the terminal and into the snow outside to the waiting over heated tour bus that would take the herd to the hotel. It was boiling hot as I slumped in the back seat which I had to myself as the others had to catch up but I'd made it into the USSR. Now all I had to do was become the 'Leningrad Postie'!
When we got to the international baggage hall I waited with the rest of tour party for the bags to come through. It looked like all the immigration/customs officers had the same idea since place was completely empty of other passengers. I guess this is what passed for excitement at Leningrad international! All (approximately 12-15) of them in grey uniforms were gathered around one of their colleague's official desks clucking like a bunch of hens waiting for us lemmings to pass through. I thought about taking a photo of them but Alex had told me that this was an absolute No-No. Getting caught taking photographs at the airport would see me spend a night in the clink and if they found the letters in addition, well, who knows? Instead, I looked around and took in my fellow groupies. Two girls and I were definitely the youngest of the bunch. The rest were mainly middle aged or elderly couples. I convinced myself that my Aran sweater and puffa jacket combo didn't really stand out too much from the rest of the passengers although to a man, woman, young, middle aged and old they all had coats of some kind! Not many of the men were wearing ties either. Strike one up for the 'sack of shit' fashonistas!
To my consternation my bag come onto the conveyer belt first. Not only that but it seemed to go round and round in
isolation for ages. I realise now that this may have been because I got to Gatwick a bit late. LIFO was kicking in. Last in First Out. But Alex was clear: wait for others to go first. DO NOT BE FIRST! After seeing my bag swing by me a fourth time I thought this SOP was not sustainable, picked it up and headed towards the Hens. This is one of life's moments when you think: "Well, at least this is not boring!". And it surely wasn't. I was in for a penny and a pound. I had decided to be completely confident about the forthcoming transaction and walked purposefully to meet the uniformed group and stuck an arm out with passport in hand. The man who was hosting the party took it and demanded that I put my suitcase and bag on the metal table in front of him. I hoisted both items up and opened them as instructed. With the others behind him he rifled through my underwear and spare shirts.
As he was doing this, the clucking of the group seem to increase and I became aware of how they were all intently looking at me. A thousand things went through my mind. What had given me away? Was I sweating? It then stuck me that the group were talking about my plastic gold tie pin. Clearly this was a new one to them. In the end one actually pointed at me, or it, and the clucking continued until an authoritative one looked around and saw other passengers forming a line. He barked a few orders, the group dispersed. The man rifling through my shreddies stopped and ordered me to zip up and move on. I didn't need to be told a second time. I passed through the terminal and into the snow outside to the waiting over heated tour bus that would take the herd to the hotel. It was boiling hot as I slumped in the back seat which I had to myself as the others had to catch up but I'd made it into the USSR. Now all I had to do was become the 'Leningrad Postie'!
The Leningrad Postie...
Knowing that my room was bugged and that the ladies who had a desk on every floor of the hotel were not there for room service but to watch and report the movements of hotel guests gave me the willies. Alex said that I should not let the Blue Letters out of my sight once inside the Soviet Union and I didn't. I ate with them, travelled with them, crapped with them and slept with them. I took them to the restaurant on the first night and bumped into the two girls that I had noticed in the airport. The dark haired one went to Liverpool University and had completed an exchange programme at Leningrad University the year before and was here to visit her old stomping ground.
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Over the next three days, I paid for one official InTourist tour - the City wide tour - to get my bearings but otherwise was hopping subway trains to the Leningrad suburbs, wandering the streets, looking for mail boxes. On one day I managed to post 50, then another 50 the next. On several occasions I was approached by groups of young women who seemed intrigued by my hat and jabbered away in Russian. The only word I knew, other than 'Nyet', was 'Spasiba'. So after standing and listening to Group jabber I guess I simply said 'Thank You'. It was noticeable that this seemed to make me an even more attractive subject to one group who followed me around a park. Whether they were intrigued by my hat, accent or that not many Russian men say 'Thanks' to Russian women was unclear but it was disconcerting, especially as the afternoons lost light. With a sigh of relief on the third day I unloaded my last batch of five letters in the southern part of Leningrad and headed back to the hotel.
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After leaving my military surplus RAF winter coat at Gatwick I had to make do with a reversible 'puffa jacket' which had a drab dirt brown side...just right for walking the streets of the USSR. Unfortunately, Aran wool sweaters were not common in Leningrad and the tweed hat was a bit of a give away and drew some unwanted attention but the girls loved it!
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If You Don't Eat Your Meat....
I was now free to enjoy the rest of my trip which was now officially a 'holiday' as far as I was concerned. I did my best to keep my wits about me but the vodka flowed and I enjoyed tripping around the centre of the great City of Leningrad looking at the fantastic architecture and empty stores and being thankful that I possessed the best branded passport in the world! I started to tag along with the two girls I had met from the tour group and they graciously invited me to an evening with one of their Soviet student friends at Leningrad University who was studying English.
I snapped these couple of pictures of our host's room as we spoke and listened to Pink Floyd's "I don't need no education". I could tell that he was an enlightened individual who wasn't deceived by Communist Party propaganda. Still, he must have had some connections to study English as a foreign language.
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I love the little things in this photo. The balloon, Frisbee, cool posters, towel and wash bag hanging above the bed ready for a quick trip to the communal loos. Could have been my digs in Aberdeen, except his was warmer. I spent most Scottish winters freezing my butt off. No "Reds Under The Bed!"
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We turned up at this student's college digs and I was struck by just how similar they were to my own back in Aberdeen. We drunk (even more!) Soviet branded vodka and our host played a selection of great western rock albums. After about 30 minutes the guy sticks on Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' Album and tries, in his drunken state, to find the track on the Vinyl where a Scotsman is heard shouting "If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding! How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?" My new Russian friend was confused and exasperated as he said he had tried researching this phrase in all the English language books that he access to but was completely stumped as to what it meant. What was the connection he asked between the 'meat' and the prohibited 'pudding'. I did my best to explain about British mums...and he got it immediately. It seems maternal instincts are a worldwide cultural phenomenon!
Click on the culinary audio clip to hear the Pink Floyd excerpt that caused my new Leningrad University student friend in the photo below (left) so much confusion...
Soon after this, as the evening was in full swing, there was a sharp knock on the door and harsh words were spoken in Russian from outside. Both our host and the girls froze. I sensed something was wrong but I had completed my mission and was enjoying orange flavoured vodka which put me a bit behind in my thinking. Reality soon returned however, as my brunette girlfriend whispered: "It's the Dorm snitch!". Had I not been a fully trained amateur secret agent (which of course neither the girls nor the Soviet friendly knew anything about - I wasn't that drunk!) this may have come as a bit of a shock and I admit a passing thought crossed my mind that they had come for me. But, as the Pink Floyd listener stood up and swayed a little, blood draining from his face, I cottoned on to the fact that it was him who lived under constant surveillance and suspicion. He put his index finger to his month and told us to shhhh and opened the door. A Slavic looking git pushed his way into the room speaking harsh Russian really fast until he spotted the girls first and then me and stopped mid-sentence. I will never forget the sight of him taking in the scene in front of him...you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. We all just looked at each other. Then all of a sudden he started to smile and spoke Russian to the Brunette. I had to admire her. She was so cool. I fell immediately in love. They started chatting and it was obvious that he remembered her from her exchange year at the university.
The rest of the evening (which was cut short) amounted to this asshole trying out his English on us and the Pink Floyd album finishing on the record deck in the background and lapping silently round and round. The girls told me afterward that when he had barged in he had demanded why our friendly host had 'westerners' in his room and that he was going to be reported. The Snitch only calmed down when he saw who it was. We had been taking some photos when he made his entrance and the girls nervously took a photo of me buttering the prat up. The next day we were due to leave and, before we headed back to the hotel, I surreptitiously left some surplus roubles with our host since I couldn't take them out of Russia. I arrived back at Gatwick, went to the Lost and Found Department and retrieved my RAF coat. Someone had nicked most of the change that was in the pockets.
The rest of the evening (which was cut short) amounted to this asshole trying out his English on us and the Pink Floyd album finishing on the record deck in the background and lapping silently round and round. The girls told me afterward that when he had barged in he had demanded why our friendly host had 'westerners' in his room and that he was going to be reported. The Snitch only calmed down when he saw who it was. We had been taking some photos when he made his entrance and the girls nervously took a photo of me buttering the prat up. The next day we were due to leave and, before we headed back to the hotel, I surreptitiously left some surplus roubles with our host since I couldn't take them out of Russia. I arrived back at Gatwick, went to the Lost and Found Department and retrieved my RAF coat. Someone had nicked most of the change that was in the pockets.
No Sweat! Having made my deliveries, I am pictured here with a friendly Pink Floyd Fan who bizarrely couldn't understand why you couldn't get any pudding if you didn't eat your meat! I left Leningrad more determined that I would do all I could to back decent intelligent people like him. After University I joined the British army and served on the northern flank of NATO.
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After this 'KGB Stooge' gate crashed our party I started to sweat a bit until I realised that snooping on your fellow students was par for the course in the USSR...I wanted to punch the Dude! The girls were nervous at this time too and they couldn't centre the photo. Click to enlarge this image and spot the 'gold' tie pin that saved my ass when I passed 'customs' on airport entry.
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Upon reflection, it was the 'Pink Floyd experience' that made for the most memorable moment of my Leningrad trip. Democracy and free markets, despite all their imperfections, are the meat of good government in this globalised post-cold war world of mass migration and the world wide web. As a citizen, you really do get the government you deserve. I believed it then, I believe it now.
I later served in the Northern Ireland to combat people who wanted to destroy our democracy and even today tell young people from other countries who complain about the state of their governments to go back home and take a stand, whether they are Iranian shop keepers in London or Pakistani taxi drivers in Watford.
If you want the pudding of a good life in a free country you've got to have the meat of democratic governance. Stand up and fight for this to make your country a better place. No matter how small your part, don't run from it.
Hoist this aboard, it's the new revolutionary democratic credo courtesy of the Floyd: "If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding! How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat!"
Have a comment? Please feel free to leave it here...(Comment count = 5)
I later served in the Northern Ireland to combat people who wanted to destroy our democracy and even today tell young people from other countries who complain about the state of their governments to go back home and take a stand, whether they are Iranian shop keepers in London or Pakistani taxi drivers in Watford.
If you want the pudding of a good life in a free country you've got to have the meat of democratic governance. Stand up and fight for this to make your country a better place. No matter how small your part, don't run from it.
Hoist this aboard, it's the new revolutionary democratic credo courtesy of the Floyd: "If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding! How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat!"
Have a comment? Please feel free to leave it here...(Comment count = 5)
