A CONVERSATION WITH RAZOR REYNOLDS.
A rollicking true-life adventure about British Special Forces Paratrooper RAZOR REYNOLDS, who transformed himself from an early life of football hooliganism and drugs … followed by a stellar career in an elite UK assault regiment … culminating in a decision to devote the rest of his life to reforming wayward kids in Rolleston, New Zealand.
The story’s mostly told through Razor’s eyes, and stitched together by veteran reporter, doco-maker, and author, Rob Harley. The book, ‘War Zone Warrior: Urban Legend’ – a collaboration with Razor and his wife Jemma – is due off the presses soon.
AFTER ONE TOO MANY brushes with the law, Razor Reynolds – standing in front of a judge in Bromley, England – had the smarts to try to cut a deal with the judge who was on the point of sending him to youth jail.“I’ll join the army, Your Honour!” Razor pleaded. And, before he knew what had happened, he was being marched into a recruiting office to sign up for the Paras – the hardest, meanest outfit in the British Armed Forces.
It was a rough ride. He was one of only half a dozen who survived the punishing training – out of a class of more than seventy.
The scrawny little Cockney skinhead was relentlessly abused, beaten, punished harshly (sometimes with snarling dogs), and disciplined by others in the unit “who hated my accent and my refusal to quit. But I just sucked it up and became the best paratrooper I could be …”
Razor had major runs on the board against him: he was terribly dyslexic and he hated heights – a distinct disadvantage for a Para!
He survived training regimes that sometimes saw him doing back-to-back marathons in the Swiss countryside, for two days running … while living a riotous life when on leave, knocking back unbelievable quantities of booze, which he and his mates imbibed to stay sane after what they confronted in war zones.
“Kosovo was the worst, I think,” says Razor. “Gave me nightmares for years. Watching a kid get sniped right in front of you – watching dogs digging up and eating corpses – not resting for days on end – smells I will never forget.”
Offered counselling on returning from these deployments, Razor says they always lied to the ‘shrinks’ – skilfully denying their nightmares, so they could go be with their girlfriends and comrades, and drink pints of top-shelf scotch and vodka to dull the memories.
Looking back, razor remembers milestone moments – not always on the battlefield. Sometimes it was quiet, loving advice from his mum. “She told me even when I had a gun in my hand and I was in a war zone I should remember to keep what she called a ‘moral compass’. I think what she meant was to act – whenever possible – as a decent human being.”
Razor’s mum’s advice went into a mental filing cabinet – waiting to be opened at a strategic time in the future.
In the meantime, he’d fallen in love with a cheerful younger girl he’d known as a kid – Jemma – another cockney with a ton of resilience in the face of a tough and austere upbringing. They’d struck up a friendship which turned into a devoted relationship, and they bought a very humble home together – although for many years, Jemma hardly saw Razor, who was whisked away to fight in hell-holes at a moment’s notice.
Early in a deployment to Iraq, he came within a whisker of being blown to pieces crossing a bridge in a specialised vehicle – as high velocity shells rained down – which turned out to have been fired by fellow Brits who’d mistaken him for the enemy!
The Iraq gig was laced through with awe – the sight of the burning oil wells was mesmerising – but the dark humour helped relive the tension. Like the time the desert toilet block blew up!
When the Paras set up camp in a remote desert location, a digger was deployed to gouge a massive hole in the sand; then came a rudimentary tarpaulin cover and a plank on which to sit and relieve yourself. Standard practice when the stay was over was to pour copious amounts of petrol into the stinking mess, drop in a match and destroy the fetid mess – presumably, partly for hygiene purposes.
Razor’s most vivid memory of the desert bogs was the look of horror on everyone’s face when a soldier, not realising the hole had been doused with fuel, casually tossed his lit cigarette butt into the foul dunny, after enjoying a squat and a smoke – only to be blown into the air in an horrendous explosion which featured metres of toilet paper, poo and the odd bit of vomit.
The soldier was last seen in agony, his bum in a large bowl of water.
Razor and his mates gained further relief from the horrors of war by finding bizarre ways to ‘cheer up’ comrades who’d had arms or legs blown off in battle.
Razor’s best buddy was recovering – miserably – in a hospital having had his leg amputated. Razor turned up with a pirate hat, eye patch, and parrot to lighten the mood … then bundled his comrade into a wheelchair (against medical protocol) and wheeled him swiftly to a nearby pub – briefly leaving him sitting alone in his chair in a disabled carpark.
Razor is unbelievably cheerful as he describes what he saw in places like Iraq and Afghanistan – able to laugh about incredibly frenetic battles with the Taliban, blowing up opium factories (which earned him glowing reviews in the press), and watching astonished as quirky Afghanis would sit down in the middle of a firefight and make a cup of tea or peel a lemon as bullets whistled just over their heads.
Razor’s recollections of being under fire in Afghanistan are riveting. For a bloke with ADHD and dyslexia, eloquence is not an issue – as his following account demonstrates …
I recall the sky that day was incredibly blue. Mind you, it was always that intense hue – even through your tinted goggles. And so unbelievably hot – often in the forties by 8am. I was hugging the ground, almost trying to squirm my way deeper into the dirt. But I could barely move. Weighed down by my bulging pack, body armour, ammo magazines,
grenades, and much more. Thirty kilograms of it. …
Always sweating profusely under the weight of your kit, in your thick camos – the sweat that mingled with the ubiquitous Afghani dust that found its way into every crevice – your eyes, hair and lungs – and caked you in filth, usually for many days before the glorious luxury of a shower.
I was aware that I probably stank – but so did everyone else in the company, so it didn’t really matter.
In one sense, it was just another day, another op. The Taliban, possibly 100 metres or less away, were pouring fire on our position, bullets flying overhead, the occasional burst of an RPG. They were throwing everything at us.
When these guys were holed up in a building, they would fight like maniacs, like cornered rats. It seemed that casualties to them meant nothing. Every fight was a curious mixture of luck, fate, and frantic attempts at bringing some precision to the encounter.
I wasn’t an expert at everything, but I did know how to read grid maps and order up indirect fire from the heavy hitters behind us. I knew if we didn’t get mortar support – precisely targeted and smashing the enemy position – this was one we might lose.
While I was plotting the grids, there was another conversation going on in my head. “Look after that kid!” were the words playing out in a thought-track, about the newly arrived young soldier hunkered down on my right flank. I had made a promise to his mum – her son would not be coming home in a body bag. After all, I had trained him for nine months and I wanted to keep that promise.
And so, there I was – yelling down the comms: “Mortar cover now please.” The co-ordinates I was giving were extremely precise. In a very real sense, I knew I was ordering in fire from at least three mortars – and when the shells arrived, they would be landing just a very few metres in front of us. ‘Danger close’ – basically this meant there was a high potential for casualties from our own guys’ ordinance.
I was in effect deliberately calling in something very close to friendly fire on our own position.
The voice on the other end of the line was a tiny bit hesitant. “Are you sure, Razor? That’s the exact spot you want?”
“Roger – out!” I responded.
There’s an eerie feeling when mortars are involved. Sometimes if the wind is blowing the right way you catch the soft whoomph of the shell as it exits the tube; then there is deathly silence.
You wait while the high explosive rounds that can tear a man’s body to pieces take a minute or so to complete their deadly flight. And you tense with anticipation, praying to whichever higher power you implore on these occasions.
You’re thinking, “Please don’t let my name be on that round!”
Sometimes that minute could feel like an eternity, and – as if in a slow-motion movie sequence – you were asking yourself life and death questions. Like, why did I sign up for this? If we get out of this one, how many of my buddies will lose a limb in a minefield on our next mission?
Will the scouts or the interpreter be alert enough to spot the IED down the road? That ‘dicker’ who looks suspicious: do I kill him before he kills me?
And what the hell comes next in this crazy, risky life of mine? If I get out alive, will I still be addicted to the buzz of war? Will I become a ‘dash-for-cash’ mercenary?
Would I be sorely tempted by the security company’s offer – 500 pounds or more a day, tax free – but with an even higher risk of dying than here in the desert?
All of these were inquiries I made of myself on 10 tours to very dangerous places as a Special Forces soldier in the elite 3rd Battalion Parachute Regiment of the British Army.
The questions I probably really should have been asking on those days waiting for the mortar rounds to touch down, was – “What the hell is life all about anyway? And what’s my purpose?”
It wasn’t until many years later, as Razor walked across a mountain saddle in the South Island of New Zealand with a rifle slung over his back, searching out a deer instead of a drugged-out Taliban fighter, that he really got answers to the big questions.
He was destined to go to war again – not in the deserts and killing fields of half a dozen hell-holes – but amongst lost and damaged young men; boys he wanted to help in turning their lives around.
His mission, now with his amazing wife Jemma, remained the same: “Leave no man behind – don’t go to any more funerals of good lads. Make a difference. Change some lives forever.”
So, what had happened?
Well, Razor was feeling a tug on his heart. To a place 20,000 kilometres away. To a spell with the New Zealand armed forces … then into a highly successful business. And finally, out of the mental filing cabinet, his mum’s words about a ‘moral compass’ were haunting him.
It was a nagging sense that wouldn’t leave him alone. A dream to go on a new kind of rescue mission – this time to pluck damaged, troubled kids out of the fires of crime and harm.
The call was compelling. There came a point around 2019 at which Razor got zapped by an encounter with God. He didn’t plan it – but suddenly he found himself with a whole new perspective on his life and destiny. And he and Jemma started exploring a quietly growing passion for teenagers in trouble.
Remembering the running street-fights of South London, being told at school his dyslexia and misbehaviour would mean he’d never amount to anything, the booze and drug-soaked days, the sense of alienation he felt, Razor’s heart started burning with a desire to get hold of disenchanted young men in Christchurch, and give them back some hope and meaning.
The results have been brilliant. Kids – booted out of school, or sent to the margins of alternative education, or given up on – are changing!
Through highly relatable one-on-one mentoring, life skills training, meaningful employment opportunities, and a healthy dose of exposure to exhilarating outdoors experiences – sad, listless and lost boys are turning into young men with a spring in their step.
Returning to school to sit exams they’d been told they’d never pass, getting meaningful employment and becoming respectful, purpose-driven teenagers, these fellows look at Razor with awe as – like the proverbial energiser bunny – he pours his energy into building life-change into an entire community.
School teachers, local cops, and desperate government agencies are rapt with the results. Delinquency and dysfunction are now being seriously addressed. A Rolleston real estate company has become a key sponsor of Moral Compass.
And Razor and Jemma have a kind of saintly side hustle – turning venison and wild pork into meat packs for distributing to places like women’s refuges and needy people!
Says author Rob Harley, “Razor’s both an extremely compassionate yet ruthlessly pragmatic leader and shaper of young men. He told me: ‘I expose them to proper physical work. Long days. Levels, concrete, formwork—the lot. I love watching how one the young guys has been cracking on, and it’s doing him good. You can see it. Structure. Routine. Someone who expects him to show up and doesn’t accept excuses.’
Razor’s relentless about building up hope and confidence in older guys too. The sharp-eyed, one-time war-zone warrior notices the gaps in men’s lives – and sets out to help.
It doesn’t always go smoothly. And Razor picks up here, telling a breath-taking tale of how trying to ‘blood’ a new bloke into the joys of the great outdoors can go just a little bit pear-shaped …
I met this major once: Dave Morris – ex-para like me. I found myself with him one day on a goat cull at Molesworth Station. Biggest station in New Zealand.
Dave’s a legend. Professional meat hunter back in the day. Hard as coffin nails, but sharp as a tack. I actually ended up carrying his casket years later. That’s how tight we became. He gave me my first pig, taught me half of what I know about hunting, and never once made a song and dance about it.
Anyway, this day I had a bloke with me for whom I was hoping there’d be some exposure to a bit of solid hunting. Alan was his name. Good bloke, keen as mustard, but not exactly built for surprises.
Dave was back at the hut.
We were looking for deer when I spotted him. Big stag. Massive antlers. Proper animal. I crawled in, took my time, got within range, and dropped him clean. Beautiful shot. I’m lying there thinking, That’s one for the books.
Alan comes up behind me, takes one look at the stag, and goes, “Oh, Razor …” And then he faints. Just keels over.
Now, we’re on a steep bit of hill, so I tell him, before he goes down: “Just drag it round here, angle it up, I’ll gut it. Makes it easier, guts fall straight out.” Too late. He’s already gone, fainted and crumbled. But as he faints, he lands face-first onto the stag’s antler. Straight through the cheek. Clean through.
I’m standing there looking at this thinking, “Well … that’s unfortunate!” We’re about thirty kilometres from nowhere. To get to the homestead takes two and a half hours just to reach the front gate, and we’re another thirty past that. No ambulances. No phones. Just radios and common sense.
I pull him off the antler, have a look. Goes in one side, out the other. Messy, but not catastrophic. I’ve seen worse on a Tuesday. I put him in the recovery position – nothing else I can do, and I know he’ll be all right. Shocked, embarrassed, bleeding a bit, but all there.
So I do what needs doing. I gut the stag. Priorities!
I’m getting the guts out, looking for a decent tree to hang him from, when Alan comes round. First thing he does is grab the radio and start whinging to Dave.
“Dave, Dave, I’m really hurt. I’ve fallen. Oh, Dave …” Full performance. Dave just says, calm as anything, “Give the radio to Razor.” I take it.
He says, “How is he?” I say, “He’s all right.” “I thought so,” Dave says, “Bring him back.”
So now I’m torn. I don’t want this deer going off – it’s a monster – but I can’t exactly leave Alan bleeding into the tussock. I stick a bit of wood between the stag’s ribs to let the air out, do what I can, and figure I’ll come back for it if I’ve got time.
We get back to the hut and Dave takes one look at Alan and says, “Right. Sit down.”
Now here’s the thing. Dave was a dentist. A very good one. Paid his way through university by being a meat hunter. So he was your classic all-rounder Mr Fixit. If it wasn’t just a tooth – if you’d tangled with barbed wire or machinery, or life in general – Dave was your man.
He gets his sewing kit out. And Alan loses it. “No, no, no! You can’t sew my face. No way.” He’s clapping his hands, carrying on like a kid.
Dave looks at him and says, deadpan, “Alan, look at my hand. I’ve been drinking.” Starts wobbling it around just to wind him up. Alan’s eyes are like dinner plates. Then Dave says, “But I sew with THIS one!” – raising his other hand. I’m just about peeing myself. “You’ll be right,” Dave says reassuringly.
Alan faints again.
So I go underneath him, hold his head steady, and Dave stitches his face like he’s hemming trousers. Calm. Precise. Not a wasted movement.
We get Alan into bed, job done, and Dave and I start on the whisky. Alan comes round halfway through and starts protesting again. “Oh no, you can’t do my face …”
“It’s done,” Dave says. Alan pauses. “What?” “It’s done.” We show him. Clean stitching. Neat as anything. “Oh,” he says. Then, after a beat, “Oh, thanks.”
That was it.
Next morning Alan was sore, embarrassed, and very quiet. The stag was still there when we went back for it. Took all day to get him out. Worth every minute.
That’s hunting. Things go wrong. People faint. Antlers bite back. But if you’ve got good mates, a steady hand, and a bit of humour, you’ll be all right …
Author Harley reminds us: “This venture is driven by a 48-year-old Cockney, who once dodged bullets and RPG missiles in the heat and dust of Iraq and Afghanistan – then found ‘true north’ in his Moral Compass!”
And Razor doesn’t mince words when it comes to helping and healing blokes. “There’s no sugar-coating it,” says Razor. “Some of these guys I’m trying to help have been right on the edge. Self-harm. Proper dark places. It’s massive in this country. Massive. You wouldn’t believe how many blokes are just hanging on.
“One bloke cried on me because he’d never caught a fish before! Not because of the fish. But because if I teach him to catch a fish, he can take his kid out for the first time ever!”
‘Warzone Warrior – Urban legend’, will not be available in stores. To secure your copy, please email: engage@moralcompass.org.nz
