In 1971, the 2nd Fusiliers had no sooner moved from Berlin to Catterick Garrison when they too were sent to patrol the Belfast streets. Steen’s skills as an Army sniper were employed to watch over the Fusilier’s Headquarters, and return fire should an attack come from the Artillery Flats area of New Lodge. The PIRA were unlikely to launch an attack against one of their own and so Jock Steen had nothing to fear.
His skill as a, sniper training officer for the PIRA, was having greater effect, his labours being rewarded when, on December 4th at 8.47 p.m., following the sound of an explosion, which had been so close to the Glenravel Street HQ that they thought they were under attack, he stood in the OP’s room and listened to the radio chatter.
In the surrounding area, a huge bomb had been detonated seconds before a patrol from ‘C’ Company passed by. The patrol, led by Major Jeremy Snow were the first on the scene. Their eyes met a heap of smouldering rubbish which moments before had been a packed two-story pub. The cries of the wounded and dying filled the cold night air. A neon sign flashed ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS’ in the distance, barely readable through the thickening black smoke. The sound of advancing ambulances and rescuers grew by the second, as the patrol tended to the wounded before handing over to Major Mike Dudding, who would help with co-ordinating the rescue, freeing Major Snow and his team to carry on with their patrol.
Steen listened intensely, aware that but for the bombing, this had been a quiet night. That changed at 10.00 p.m., when reports came in of a one hundred strong Protestant mob who had assembled in Duncairn Gardens and were taunting the Catholics as they tried to come to terms with the bombing. Within minutes an equally strong Catholic crowd had formed and was shouting abuse back at the Protestants. Major Snow radioed for assistance. Steen’s ears ‘pricked up’ as he realised the crowds were moving into North Street.
In the dimly lit arena, Major Snow put himself between the warring sides, in an effort to bring some order to the deteriorating situation. As he did, shots rang out, sending people flying in all directions, leaving Maj. Snow alone and in full view. One more shot from an M1 Carbine was heard and the Major dropped where he stood in Hillman Street.
Steen listened in silence as the Battalion Ambulance carried the Major to hospital’ and radioed in a ‘contact’ report.
“It was a PIRA sniper then”. He said to no-one in particular.
His face showed no sign of remorse then, or later when he heard of Major Snow’s death. Later at the appointed time he made his nightly telephone call to his mentor on the mainland reporting the deployment of troops and the success of his sniper’s activity.
…
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Monday, 2 August 2010
WAIT OUT Part 11 P Company Selection
CHAPTER THREE
Selection
Three weeks leave was far too much for me, after the first three or four days I wanted to be back at Aldershot, not least because Senga’s father was due to be posted to Market Drayton in Shropshire, and Senga had decided that she would find a flat and stay in Aldershot.
My Dad had remembered that one of his former Army mates, Butch Knall, had remained in the service and transferred from Transport to the Para’s and was now at Browning. When I arrived back, I decided I’d go over to find him. Before my leave, I could walk around any part of the Garrison unhindered, now, the threat of the IRA was beginning to permeate through and security was stepped up. As I approached Browning, I was stopped and my ID checked. Eventually I was allowed through and ran into Ackerman and Jock Currie. I told them about my Dad’s mate and much to my surprise they knew him and took me to meet him. Butch was a tightly packed ‘bull dog’ with a shaven head. I introduced myself and straight away, we ‘hit it off’. Butch laughed when Ackerman told him about our ‘bit of action’.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve obviously got some spunk, from your Dad I suppose, and you certainly look like him.” Butch said as he looked me up and down.
Between the three of them I looked and felt very humble, here were three men who’d been around quite a bit and had seen a lot of action. Butch told me that he was on the training staff and had responsibility for ‘P’ Company’. ‘P’ Company, he explained was para’ training for other military personnel, who were not serving with the Parachute Regiment, but were nevertheless trained to work and jump alongside the Para’s.
“I take it you haven’t heard of 63 Squadron, RCT Logistic Para.”
I hadn’t and told him. Moments later the four of us were walking through the Museum, where I was shown the emblems of Logistic Para’s and, for the first time was introduced to the Special Air Service, all three had served with 22 SAS at some stage of their careers and now, took great delight in telling me all about it. A section of the Airborne Museum had been dedicated to the men from Hereford. I was intrigued by the whole episode. I hadn’t realised the diversity of the Army. I had no idea that soldiers could work in such clandestine ways. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, looking at the different roles and listening to these men, lit a flame in me that would burn for a very long time.
Back at Buller, for the next six weeks, I went through my ‘trade’ training. I learnt to drive, passed my Heavy Goods Class Three license, found my way around the workings of an engine, and emerged as a ‘B3 Driver’. It was awful, I hated it! The only good thing was that Senga moved into her flat and so every night I went from the MT park to live with her, leaving the ‘bullshit’ of the barrack block behind me. I still had a bed there but that was all. Even though the rest of the lads were well pissed off about it, none of them ever let on that I was ‘living out’, something which was not allowed unless you were married, and even then, not during training.
On the last day of the trade training our squad reported to the Chief Clerk in the HQ (Head Quarter) block for our posting details. The ‘cream of the crop’ was to be posted to a Tank Transport Unit. Everyone wished for that, but postings from training to one of these units was rarer than ‘tits on a fish’.
“Driver Griffiths,” I came to attention as the Chief Clerk called me.
“Chief!” I answered smartly.
“612 Tank Transport, Fallingbostle Germany.”
I was gob smacked as he handed me my travel warrant and joining instructions.
Back in the accommodation block the rest of the lads were congratulating me, although I could tell they were ‘jealous to fuck’, they never showed it.
The night before we all went our separate ways and joined our units, the squad had an almighty piss up in the NAAFI. I’d already said my good bye to Senga as, I had planned to stay in the block. We’d parted on the basis that I would send for her when I’d settled in my new unit. I hadn’t bothered to contact Dianne, so she didn’t know where I was.
Before the serious drinking got going, Ackerman and Butch came to see me. They were pleased that I managed to pull off a ‘plumb’ posting, but Ackerman looked a little put out. He told me that he’d mentioned to the Chief that I would probably have been better placed with Air Despatch. At the time I didn’t understand what he meant by that, an Air Despatch job was another ‘hard to come by’ posting that every one wanted, but no one seemed to get.
I’d been in Fallingbostle for less than a week when my poor standard of education got me noticed. As a tank transport driver, you had to be able to carry out the recovery of tanks. This meant that you had to be able to quickly work out the mathematical calculation of the weight of the tank, against the strength of the transporter’s winch and set up a series of pulleys so that the tank could be winched onto the trailer efficiently and safely. Everyone else seemed to be able to do this quite easily, but not me, I struggled.
The Fallingbostle Garrison had an education unit. I was sent there and academically tested. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time in that unit, having ‘one to one’ tuition in basic English and Maths.
I was enjoying the nightlife in Germany. Senga rang and asked when I would be sending for her. I gave her a date and she made arrangements to fly out. The day before the flight, I thought it through and decided that I didn’t want her around, cramping my style, so I telephoned her and told her about Dianne. After that, I was about as popular as a ‘fart in a space suit’.
Back in the unit, the driving side of the work wasn’t a problem and I soon passed my HGV class one test. I enjoyed the idea of driving a vehicle weighing one hundred and ten tonnes and some forty-foot long, but the rest of the job was boring the pants off me. To get overt it I did a lot of running and exercising. Since my brief introduction to the SAS back in Aldershot I’d got it into my mind to try for selection to this elite unit. My fitness routine would certainly help as much of the selection relied physical fitness. I soon became friendly with the unit PTI’s. They introduced me to Corporal Kenny Booth and Captain Falkner. I’d seen the two of them around the camp, always running with huge Bergens (Rucksacks) full of weights. I’d assumed that they were just fitness fanatics but it transpired that they had decided to go through selection for the SAS. I tagged along with them most days and found that my own state of fitness was moving to new heights. Both of them were former Air Dispatchers and had served with 63 Para. The more time I spent with them the more I missed the excitement of combat soldiering. As for the rest of the lads, they were a real mixed bunch. When they weren’t driving or on exercise, they were down the town getting pissed and fighting with the locals, or, more often than not, fighting each other. It got so bad at the unit that four soldiers attempted suicide, and a fifth went all the way. He was a Welsh lad. I didn’t know him well. His way out was to tie a length of electric flex around his neck, attached the other end to the banister at the top of the accommodation block stairwell and launch himself into space. He’d carried this out in the early hours and was found by one of the boys two or three hours later. I was in the washroom on the top landing when I heard the commotion and went to see what it was all about. I looked over. The body was turning slowly first to the left, then to the right. The stretching the poor guy’s neck well past it’s intended length. The wire had cut into the flesh and was now buried deep inside his throat only bone stopping it from completely severing head from torso. There wasn’t a lot of blood but what there was had run down his body dripped onto the floor and had congealed into thick dark red jelly with pink froth on top. Concern for the welfare of the unit spread to the Garrison Medical Officer who ordered an enquiry into the running of the unit and the moral.
I hated it, and was beginning to dislike Army life when orders arrived posting me to 47 Air Despatch at Lyneham in Wiltshire.
Air Dispatchers, work alongside RAF aircrew and are responsible for ‘making ready’, stores and equipment, to be dropped from aircraft during flight. Many of the Dispatchers are Para’ trained and parachute down to locate and organise Drop Zones and Landing Zones (DZ and LZ). This particular role was the one I wanted as once you were on the ground you became a part of a forward reconnaissance force working alongside special forces. The moment I arrived at the unit I applied for ‘P’ Company. The Chief Clerk, himself Para’ trained was happy to endorse it but pointed out that I had to pass the Air Dispatcher’s Course first, which lasted for six weeks. Not only that, but he also told me that all transfers were on hold as the unit had been called for a four month tour of Northern Ireland and were due to embark in seven weeks.
The following six weeks were great. I worked on Hercules C130’s aircraft, Puma and Wessex helicopters and passed the course without too much trouble. Although the course was mainly ‘school’ based I kept my fitness routine going. The other plus, was that the preferred weapons of the Air Despatch Troop were the 9mm Sub Machine Gun and the 9mm Browning Pistol, the latter becoming a weapon which I felt very comfortable with, so much so, that I represented the unit and won three competitions shooting against the RAF Regiment.
Even though I’d been working on the Air Despatch Course, I’d joined the rest of the Troop in some of the Internal Security Training they were doing for the forth-coming tour. Now, with only two weeks left I joined them full time, and practised riot control drills, weapon handling, arrest and restraint techniques and was introduced to the 4 Ton Humber and the Saracen Armoured vehicles.
…
Selection
Three weeks leave was far too much for me, after the first three or four days I wanted to be back at Aldershot, not least because Senga’s father was due to be posted to Market Drayton in Shropshire, and Senga had decided that she would find a flat and stay in Aldershot.
My Dad had remembered that one of his former Army mates, Butch Knall, had remained in the service and transferred from Transport to the Para’s and was now at Browning. When I arrived back, I decided I’d go over to find him. Before my leave, I could walk around any part of the Garrison unhindered, now, the threat of the IRA was beginning to permeate through and security was stepped up. As I approached Browning, I was stopped and my ID checked. Eventually I was allowed through and ran into Ackerman and Jock Currie. I told them about my Dad’s mate and much to my surprise they knew him and took me to meet him. Butch was a tightly packed ‘bull dog’ with a shaven head. I introduced myself and straight away, we ‘hit it off’. Butch laughed when Ackerman told him about our ‘bit of action’.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve obviously got some spunk, from your Dad I suppose, and you certainly look like him.” Butch said as he looked me up and down.
Between the three of them I looked and felt very humble, here were three men who’d been around quite a bit and had seen a lot of action. Butch told me that he was on the training staff and had responsibility for ‘P’ Company’. ‘P’ Company, he explained was para’ training for other military personnel, who were not serving with the Parachute Regiment, but were nevertheless trained to work and jump alongside the Para’s.
“I take it you haven’t heard of 63 Squadron, RCT Logistic Para.”
I hadn’t and told him. Moments later the four of us were walking through the Museum, where I was shown the emblems of Logistic Para’s and, for the first time was introduced to the Special Air Service, all three had served with 22 SAS at some stage of their careers and now, took great delight in telling me all about it. A section of the Airborne Museum had been dedicated to the men from Hereford. I was intrigued by the whole episode. I hadn’t realised the diversity of the Army. I had no idea that soldiers could work in such clandestine ways. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, looking at the different roles and listening to these men, lit a flame in me that would burn for a very long time.
Back at Buller, for the next six weeks, I went through my ‘trade’ training. I learnt to drive, passed my Heavy Goods Class Three license, found my way around the workings of an engine, and emerged as a ‘B3 Driver’. It was awful, I hated it! The only good thing was that Senga moved into her flat and so every night I went from the MT park to live with her, leaving the ‘bullshit’ of the barrack block behind me. I still had a bed there but that was all. Even though the rest of the lads were well pissed off about it, none of them ever let on that I was ‘living out’, something which was not allowed unless you were married, and even then, not during training.
On the last day of the trade training our squad reported to the Chief Clerk in the HQ (Head Quarter) block for our posting details. The ‘cream of the crop’ was to be posted to a Tank Transport Unit. Everyone wished for that, but postings from training to one of these units was rarer than ‘tits on a fish’.
“Driver Griffiths,” I came to attention as the Chief Clerk called me.
“Chief!” I answered smartly.
“612 Tank Transport, Fallingbostle Germany.”
I was gob smacked as he handed me my travel warrant and joining instructions.
Back in the accommodation block the rest of the lads were congratulating me, although I could tell they were ‘jealous to fuck’, they never showed it.
The night before we all went our separate ways and joined our units, the squad had an almighty piss up in the NAAFI. I’d already said my good bye to Senga as, I had planned to stay in the block. We’d parted on the basis that I would send for her when I’d settled in my new unit. I hadn’t bothered to contact Dianne, so she didn’t know where I was.
Before the serious drinking got going, Ackerman and Butch came to see me. They were pleased that I managed to pull off a ‘plumb’ posting, but Ackerman looked a little put out. He told me that he’d mentioned to the Chief that I would probably have been better placed with Air Despatch. At the time I didn’t understand what he meant by that, an Air Despatch job was another ‘hard to come by’ posting that every one wanted, but no one seemed to get.
I’d been in Fallingbostle for less than a week when my poor standard of education got me noticed. As a tank transport driver, you had to be able to carry out the recovery of tanks. This meant that you had to be able to quickly work out the mathematical calculation of the weight of the tank, against the strength of the transporter’s winch and set up a series of pulleys so that the tank could be winched onto the trailer efficiently and safely. Everyone else seemed to be able to do this quite easily, but not me, I struggled.
The Fallingbostle Garrison had an education unit. I was sent there and academically tested. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time in that unit, having ‘one to one’ tuition in basic English and Maths.
I was enjoying the nightlife in Germany. Senga rang and asked when I would be sending for her. I gave her a date and she made arrangements to fly out. The day before the flight, I thought it through and decided that I didn’t want her around, cramping my style, so I telephoned her and told her about Dianne. After that, I was about as popular as a ‘fart in a space suit’.
Back in the unit, the driving side of the work wasn’t a problem and I soon passed my HGV class one test. I enjoyed the idea of driving a vehicle weighing one hundred and ten tonnes and some forty-foot long, but the rest of the job was boring the pants off me. To get overt it I did a lot of running and exercising. Since my brief introduction to the SAS back in Aldershot I’d got it into my mind to try for selection to this elite unit. My fitness routine would certainly help as much of the selection relied physical fitness. I soon became friendly with the unit PTI’s. They introduced me to Corporal Kenny Booth and Captain Falkner. I’d seen the two of them around the camp, always running with huge Bergens (Rucksacks) full of weights. I’d assumed that they were just fitness fanatics but it transpired that they had decided to go through selection for the SAS. I tagged along with them most days and found that my own state of fitness was moving to new heights. Both of them were former Air Dispatchers and had served with 63 Para. The more time I spent with them the more I missed the excitement of combat soldiering. As for the rest of the lads, they were a real mixed bunch. When they weren’t driving or on exercise, they were down the town getting pissed and fighting with the locals, or, more often than not, fighting each other. It got so bad at the unit that four soldiers attempted suicide, and a fifth went all the way. He was a Welsh lad. I didn’t know him well. His way out was to tie a length of electric flex around his neck, attached the other end to the banister at the top of the accommodation block stairwell and launch himself into space. He’d carried this out in the early hours and was found by one of the boys two or three hours later. I was in the washroom on the top landing when I heard the commotion and went to see what it was all about. I looked over. The body was turning slowly first to the left, then to the right. The stretching the poor guy’s neck well past it’s intended length. The wire had cut into the flesh and was now buried deep inside his throat only bone stopping it from completely severing head from torso. There wasn’t a lot of blood but what there was had run down his body dripped onto the floor and had congealed into thick dark red jelly with pink froth on top. Concern for the welfare of the unit spread to the Garrison Medical Officer who ordered an enquiry into the running of the unit and the moral.
I hated it, and was beginning to dislike Army life when orders arrived posting me to 47 Air Despatch at Lyneham in Wiltshire.
Air Dispatchers, work alongside RAF aircrew and are responsible for ‘making ready’, stores and equipment, to be dropped from aircraft during flight. Many of the Dispatchers are Para’ trained and parachute down to locate and organise Drop Zones and Landing Zones (DZ and LZ). This particular role was the one I wanted as once you were on the ground you became a part of a forward reconnaissance force working alongside special forces. The moment I arrived at the unit I applied for ‘P’ Company. The Chief Clerk, himself Para’ trained was happy to endorse it but pointed out that I had to pass the Air Dispatcher’s Course first, which lasted for six weeks. Not only that, but he also told me that all transfers were on hold as the unit had been called for a four month tour of Northern Ireland and were due to embark in seven weeks.
The following six weeks were great. I worked on Hercules C130’s aircraft, Puma and Wessex helicopters and passed the course without too much trouble. Although the course was mainly ‘school’ based I kept my fitness routine going. The other plus, was that the preferred weapons of the Air Despatch Troop were the 9mm Sub Machine Gun and the 9mm Browning Pistol, the latter becoming a weapon which I felt very comfortable with, so much so, that I represented the unit and won three competitions shooting against the RAF Regiment.
Even though I’d been working on the Air Despatch Course, I’d joined the rest of the Troop in some of the Internal Security Training they were doing for the forth-coming tour. Now, with only two weeks left I joined them full time, and practised riot control drills, weapon handling, arrest and restraint techniques and was introduced to the 4 Ton Humber and the Saracen Armoured vehicles.
…
Thursday, 8 July 2010
RAOUL MOAT Copycat killer!
POLICE KILLER ON RUN LEAVES TRAIL OF DEATH
You could be forgiven for jumping to the conclusion that this headline relates to the unfolding story of Raoul Moat but in fact, it is a headline from a very similar incident in 1982.
The similarity between Moat and his actions are chillingly close to the 82 incident when fugitive and police hater Barry Prudom spent 18 days on the run skilfully using escape and evasion techniques he’d learned from books and survival magazines in his effort to kill as many police officers as he could.
Like Moat, Prudom was a fitness fanatic, and lived a Rambo style existence using the natural surroundings for cover and food as he played out his police killing role.
My mentor and trainer Sgt Major Eddie McGee was a military survival expert and tracker called in by the police to help in the hunt. Eddie led the police to the feet of the triple killer who had used a discarded plastic sheet to construct a hide and shelter within 300 yards of a local police station. Armed and dangerous Prudom lay in wait. McGee used his skills to get so close to the killer that he touched his boot giving the waiting police Prudom’s exact position. Moments later four high velocity shots rang out and Prudom was dead.
Police searching for Raoul Moat would be wise to re-visit the intelligence in the Prudom case as the similarity between the two men is quite bizarre.
You could be forgiven for jumping to the conclusion that this headline relates to the unfolding story of Raoul Moat but in fact, it is a headline from a very similar incident in 1982.
The similarity between Moat and his actions are chillingly close to the 82 incident when fugitive and police hater Barry Prudom spent 18 days on the run skilfully using escape and evasion techniques he’d learned from books and survival magazines in his effort to kill as many police officers as he could.
Like Moat, Prudom was a fitness fanatic, and lived a Rambo style existence using the natural surroundings for cover and food as he played out his police killing role.
My mentor and trainer Sgt Major Eddie McGee was a military survival expert and tracker called in by the police to help in the hunt. Eddie led the police to the feet of the triple killer who had used a discarded plastic sheet to construct a hide and shelter within 300 yards of a local police station. Armed and dangerous Prudom lay in wait. McGee used his skills to get so close to the killer that he touched his boot giving the waiting police Prudom’s exact position. Moments later four high velocity shots rang out and Prudom was dead.
Police searching for Raoul Moat would be wise to re-visit the intelligence in the Prudom case as the similarity between the two men is quite bizarre.
Monday, 21 June 2010
WAIT OUT Part 10
Jock Steen was also passing out, his title of ‘sniper’ being confirmed by the senior instructor at the School of Infantry, in Warminster. During his, twenty-four months of military service, he had excelled with the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Known as a ‘sleeper’ by his PIRA handlers, his true name and whereabouts were known only to O’Brien.
Sniper course behind him, Jock travelled to Liverpool, taking advantage of a week’s leave to meet with O’Brien and a high ranking member of the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army, (PIRA).
Behind tightly closed doors in the Atlantic Hotel, situated in Chapel Street, Steen met and talked with his handlers.
“ You don’t need to know ma name or where am from, It’ll be better if you only have contact with Patrick here,” The PIRA man’s eyes were tight slits cut into his sharp, face.
Jock looked at O’Brien, taking the broad Northern Irish accent as recognition of the validity of the PIRA official. “I understand.” He said.
“ The skills your learnin’ will help our struggle.” The official continued. “The problem is the British have brought in the MI5 to monitor and follow people like me, so we have no alternative but to keep well out of the way.” He pointed to O’Brien. “ Patrick here has no past, as far as the British intelligence knows, so he’s a very important man.”
“You see Jock, MI5 are beginning to gather intelligence from the province,” O’Brien said, “People like,” he hesitated, “well like him,” he pointed to the stranger, “will be watched.” He continued. “ So it’s important that we can keep you, ‘up our sleeve’, so to speak.”
The stranger leant forward, and held Jock’s forearm, his deep eyes penetrated Jock’s soul “ You are a very important member, of a very important team, your skills will be called upon time after time,” He waited for a moment, his voice lowered menacingly, “let us down and your family will feel the consequences.”
Steen’s body went rigid as the words sank in, his eyes widened and he looked into the sub conscious of the PIRA man. “ Make no mistake, if my family are harmed in any way I’ll…”
O’Brien butted in. “ There’s no way your family will be harmed, their safety is not in question. What my friend here means is that you are in a unique position, these people don’t know you as I do Jock, They’re vulnerable, and don’t know who to trust.” He turned to the PIRA man. “ I’m telling you, this man is not the type who would sell to the highest bidder. I encouraged him to join the British Army, up until that point he was for joining any organisation that would right the wrongs of his Catholic family and the death of his Da’.”
Steen and the PIRA man sat back, each respecting the position of O’Brien.
“What have you for us?” O’Brien continued,
Jock sat silent for a moment and eyed the PIRA man. Letting out a sigh, he went to his briefcase and took out a series of lecture notes used on his sniper’s course, and handed them over.
The PIRA man smiled as he noted the pamphlet’s heading…
‘SCHOOL OF INFANTRY
SNIPER TRAINING
(RESTRICTED)
W02 EVANS
FOR OFFICER COMMANDING’
“ This is exactly what we need Jock,” he said as he thumbed the pages, “of course, we will need to supplement this with practical experience.” He looked straight into Jock Steen’s eyes, “ you are our link, can you come up with the goods? Can you train our active service units?”
“ Sure, he can.” O’Brien intervened. “ Make no mistake, he is more than capable of sharing his experiences with our ‘comrades in arms’ aren’t you Jock?”
Steen nodded as he slid his eyes from the PIRA man to O’Brien.
“As O’Brien knows Jock, we are having problems with weapons, most of the ones we’ve recovered from secret stores are old and rusting.”
“What have you got?” Jock was curious.
“ Well, not much, a few Thompson Sub-machine-guns, two M.1 carbines, a Spanish ‘Star’ automatic pistol, and a German Walther P38, a number of .22 rifles, and five .38 Webley’s”
“ Not much to build an Army, eh Jock.” O’Brien was trying to ease the conversation in the wake of the mistrust of his PIRA contact.
“ We’d appreciate your thoughts on the best weapons for the type of work we’re going to be doin’. We were thinking of Belgium FN’s.”
“ Too long and heavy. The M1’s a good weapon, short and light with plenty of power, makes it an easy weapon to conceal, yet has an effective range of three hundred and thirty yards.”
“The ones we have, we got from friends in America they’re second world war issue,” The PIRA man paused for a moment, “no,” he continued I can’t see us getting enough of them.”
“ In that case, I’d go for the Armalite AR-18, an inch longer, weighing in at 7.75 pounds when it’s loaded, the range increases to around five hundred yards, I’d say it was ideally suited.”
O’Brien put his arm around his protégé’s shoulder tugging him a little. He spoke to his Irish contact. “See, I told you he was good!”
The PIRA man’s stern face mellowed slightly as he responded. “You did indeed, and I can see that your trust has not been misplaced.”
“Anything else?” Jock asked.
“Well we are in a position to buy a number of RPG-7 Portable Rocket Launchers, what’s your thoughts on them?”
“ I have no thoughts, I know nothing about them. Just remember to tell your Army whose side I’m on when they start firing.” Jock’s remark broke the ice.
The trio talked late into the night. Steen suggested that weapon training should begin straight away. It was decided that the training could be done along the banks of the Shannon, using the .22’s and the Webley’s, which could be adapted easily to cut down the noise and power.
Although the meeting had a cold start, by 3 a.m., the three had agreed their roles, and Jock Steen was formerly taken into the swelling ranks of the PIRA. Although it would be some time before his existence would be properly announced to other members.
…
Sniper course behind him, Jock travelled to Liverpool, taking advantage of a week’s leave to meet with O’Brien and a high ranking member of the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army, (PIRA).
Behind tightly closed doors in the Atlantic Hotel, situated in Chapel Street, Steen met and talked with his handlers.
“ You don’t need to know ma name or where am from, It’ll be better if you only have contact with Patrick here,” The PIRA man’s eyes were tight slits cut into his sharp, face.
Jock looked at O’Brien, taking the broad Northern Irish accent as recognition of the validity of the PIRA official. “I understand.” He said.
“ The skills your learnin’ will help our struggle.” The official continued. “The problem is the British have brought in the MI5 to monitor and follow people like me, so we have no alternative but to keep well out of the way.” He pointed to O’Brien. “ Patrick here has no past, as far as the British intelligence knows, so he’s a very important man.”
“You see Jock, MI5 are beginning to gather intelligence from the province,” O’Brien said, “People like,” he hesitated, “well like him,” he pointed to the stranger, “will be watched.” He continued. “ So it’s important that we can keep you, ‘up our sleeve’, so to speak.”
The stranger leant forward, and held Jock’s forearm, his deep eyes penetrated Jock’s soul “ You are a very important member, of a very important team, your skills will be called upon time after time,” He waited for a moment, his voice lowered menacingly, “let us down and your family will feel the consequences.”
Steen’s body went rigid as the words sank in, his eyes widened and he looked into the sub conscious of the PIRA man. “ Make no mistake, if my family are harmed in any way I’ll…”
O’Brien butted in. “ There’s no way your family will be harmed, their safety is not in question. What my friend here means is that you are in a unique position, these people don’t know you as I do Jock, They’re vulnerable, and don’t know who to trust.” He turned to the PIRA man. “ I’m telling you, this man is not the type who would sell to the highest bidder. I encouraged him to join the British Army, up until that point he was for joining any organisation that would right the wrongs of his Catholic family and the death of his Da’.”
Steen and the PIRA man sat back, each respecting the position of O’Brien.
“What have you for us?” O’Brien continued,
Jock sat silent for a moment and eyed the PIRA man. Letting out a sigh, he went to his briefcase and took out a series of lecture notes used on his sniper’s course, and handed them over.
The PIRA man smiled as he noted the pamphlet’s heading…
‘SCHOOL OF INFANTRY
SNIPER TRAINING
(RESTRICTED)
W02 EVANS
FOR OFFICER COMMANDING’
“ This is exactly what we need Jock,” he said as he thumbed the pages, “of course, we will need to supplement this with practical experience.” He looked straight into Jock Steen’s eyes, “ you are our link, can you come up with the goods? Can you train our active service units?”
“ Sure, he can.” O’Brien intervened. “ Make no mistake, he is more than capable of sharing his experiences with our ‘comrades in arms’ aren’t you Jock?”
Steen nodded as he slid his eyes from the PIRA man to O’Brien.
“As O’Brien knows Jock, we are having problems with weapons, most of the ones we’ve recovered from secret stores are old and rusting.”
“What have you got?” Jock was curious.
“ Well, not much, a few Thompson Sub-machine-guns, two M.1 carbines, a Spanish ‘Star’ automatic pistol, and a German Walther P38, a number of .22 rifles, and five .38 Webley’s”
“ Not much to build an Army, eh Jock.” O’Brien was trying to ease the conversation in the wake of the mistrust of his PIRA contact.
“ We’d appreciate your thoughts on the best weapons for the type of work we’re going to be doin’. We were thinking of Belgium FN’s.”
“ Too long and heavy. The M1’s a good weapon, short and light with plenty of power, makes it an easy weapon to conceal, yet has an effective range of three hundred and thirty yards.”
“The ones we have, we got from friends in America they’re second world war issue,” The PIRA man paused for a moment, “no,” he continued I can’t see us getting enough of them.”
“ In that case, I’d go for the Armalite AR-18, an inch longer, weighing in at 7.75 pounds when it’s loaded, the range increases to around five hundred yards, I’d say it was ideally suited.”
O’Brien put his arm around his protégé’s shoulder tugging him a little. He spoke to his Irish contact. “See, I told you he was good!”
The PIRA man’s stern face mellowed slightly as he responded. “You did indeed, and I can see that your trust has not been misplaced.”
“Anything else?” Jock asked.
“Well we are in a position to buy a number of RPG-7 Portable Rocket Launchers, what’s your thoughts on them?”
“ I have no thoughts, I know nothing about them. Just remember to tell your Army whose side I’m on when they start firing.” Jock’s remark broke the ice.
The trio talked late into the night. Steen suggested that weapon training should begin straight away. It was decided that the training could be done along the banks of the Shannon, using the .22’s and the Webley’s, which could be adapted easily to cut down the noise and power.
Although the meeting had a cold start, by 3 a.m., the three had agreed their roles, and Jock Steen was formerly taken into the swelling ranks of the PIRA. Although it would be some time before his existence would be properly announced to other members.
…
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
Child abduction
CHILD ABDUCTION
For many years we have been involved in the investigation, detection, location and repatriation of abducted children.
We have a great deal of experience in international investigations and have been involved in delicate and difficult negotiations.
We have a ‘can do’ approach to this type of work and will not be deterred by threat or pressure.
Many of our operators have specialist military and intelligence experience.
We are committed to offering a totally safe professional service in this area.
Kenn Griffiths is available at any time for an informal discussion or to give a realistic appraisal of the work and costs involved.
For many years we have been involved in the investigation, detection, location and repatriation of abducted children.
We have a great deal of experience in international investigations and have been involved in delicate and difficult negotiations.
We have a ‘can do’ approach to this type of work and will not be deterred by threat or pressure.
Many of our operators have specialist military and intelligence experience.
We are committed to offering a totally safe professional service in this area.
Kenn Griffiths is available at any time for an informal discussion or to give a realistic appraisal of the work and costs involved.
Sunday, 13 June 2010
WAIT OUT Part 9
…
Jock Steen was also passing out, his title of ‘sniper’ being confirmed by the senior instructor at the School of Infantry, in Warminster. During his, twenty-four months of military service, he had excelled with the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Known as a ‘sleeper’ by his PIRA handlers, his true name and whereabouts were known only to O’Brien.
Sniper course behind him, Jock travelled to Liverpool, taking advantage of a week’s leave to meet with O’Brien and a high ranking member of the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army, (PIRA).
Behind tightly closed doors in the Atlantic Hotel, situated in Chapel Street, Steen met and talked with his handlers.
“ You don’t need to know ma name or where am from, It’ll be better if you only have contact with Patrick here,” The PIRA man’s eyes were tight slits cut into his sharp, face.
Jock looked at O’Brien, taking the broad Northern Irish accent as recognition of the validity of the PIRA official. “I understand.” He said.
“ The skills your learnin’ will help our struggle.” The official continued. “The problem is the British have brought in the MI5 to monitor and follow people like me, so we have no alternative but to keep well out of the way.” He pointed to O’Brien. “ Patrick here has no past, as far as the British intelligence knows, so he’s a very important man.”
“You see Jock, MI5 are beginning to gather intelligence from the province,” O’Brien said, “People like,” he hesitated, “well like him,” he pointed to the stranger, “will be watched.” He continued. “ So it’s important that we can keep you, ‘up our sleeve’, so to speak.”
The stranger leant forward, and held Jock’s forearm, his deep eyes penetrated Jock’s soul “ You are a very important member, of a very important team, your skills will be called upon time after time,” He waited for a moment, his voice lowered menacingly, “let us down and your family will feel the consequences.”
Steen’s body went rigid as the words sank in, his eyes widened and he looked into the sub conscious of the PIRA man. “ Make no mistake, if my family are harmed in any way I’ll…”
O’Brien butted in. “ There’s no way your family will be harmed, their safety is not in question. What my friend here means is that you are in a unique position, these people don’t know you as I do Jock, They’re vulnerable, and don’t know who to trust.” He turned to the PIRA man. “ I’m telling you, this man is not the type who would sell to the highest bidder. I encouraged him to join the British Army, up until that point he was for joining any organisation that would right the wrongs of his Catholic family and the death of his Da’.”
Steen and the PIRA man sat back, each respecting the position of O’Brien.
“What have you for us?” O’Brien continued,
Jock sat silent for a moment and eyed the PIRA man. Letting out a sigh, he went to his briefcase and took out a series of lecture notes used on his sniper’s course, and handed them over.
The PIRA man smiled as he noted the pamphlet’s heading…
‘SCHOOL OF INFANTRY
SNIPER TRAINING
(RESTRICTED)
W02 EVANS
FOR OFFICER COMMANDING’
“ This is exactly what we need Jock,” he said as he thumbed the pages, “of course, we will need to supplement this with practical experience.” He looked straight into Jock Steen’s eyes, “ you are our link, can you come up with the goods? Can you train our active service units?”
“ Sure, he can.” O’Brien intervened. “ Make no mistake, he is more than capable of sharing his experiences with our ‘comrades in arms’ aren’t you Jock?”
Steen nodded as he slid his eyes from the PIRA man to O’Brien.
“As O’Brien knows Jock, we are having problems with weapons, most of the ones we’ve recovered from secret stores are old and rusting.”
“What have you got?” Jock was curious.
“ Well, not much, a few Thompson Sub-machine-guns, two M.1 carbines, a Spanish ‘Star’ automatic pistol, and a German Walther P38, a number of .22 rifles, and five .38 Webley’s”
“ Not much to build an Army, eh Jock.” O’Brien was trying to ease the conversation in the wake of the mistrust of his PIRA contact.
“ We’d appreciate your thoughts on the best weapons for the type of work we’re going to be doin’. We were thinking of Belgium FN’s.”
“ Too long and heavy. The M1’s a good weapon, short and light with plenty of power, makes it an easy weapon to conceal, yet has an effective range of three hundred and thirty yards.”
“The ones we have, we got from friends in America they’re second world war issue,” The PIRA man paused for a moment, “no,” he continued I can’t see us getting enough of them.”
“ In that case, I’d go for the Armalite AR-18, an inch longer, weighing in at 7.75 pounds when it’s loaded, the range increases to around five hundred yards, I’d say it was ideally suited.”
O’Brien put his arm around his protégé’s shoulder tugging him a little. He spoke to his Irish contact. “See, I told you he was good!”
The PIRA man’s stern face mellowed slightly as he responded. “You did indeed, and I can see that your trust has not been misplaced.”
“Anything else?” Jock asked.
“Well we are in a position to buy a number of RPG-7 Portable Rocket Launchers, what’s your thoughts on them?”
“ I have no thoughts, I know nothing about them. Just remember to tell your Army whose side I’m on when they start firing.” Jock’s remark broke the ice.
The trio talked late into the night. Steen suggested that weapon training should begin straight away. It was decided that the training could be done along the banks of the Shannon, using the .22’s and the Webley’s, which could be adapted easily to cut down the noise and power.
Although the meeting had a cold start, by 3 a.m., the three had agreed their roles, and Jock Steen was formerly taken into the swelling ranks of the PIRA. Although it would be some time before his existence would be properly announced to other members.
…
Jock Steen was also passing out, his title of ‘sniper’ being confirmed by the senior instructor at the School of Infantry, in Warminster. During his, twenty-four months of military service, he had excelled with the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Known as a ‘sleeper’ by his PIRA handlers, his true name and whereabouts were known only to O’Brien.
Sniper course behind him, Jock travelled to Liverpool, taking advantage of a week’s leave to meet with O’Brien and a high ranking member of the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army, (PIRA).
Behind tightly closed doors in the Atlantic Hotel, situated in Chapel Street, Steen met and talked with his handlers.
“ You don’t need to know ma name or where am from, It’ll be better if you only have contact with Patrick here,” The PIRA man’s eyes were tight slits cut into his sharp, face.
Jock looked at O’Brien, taking the broad Northern Irish accent as recognition of the validity of the PIRA official. “I understand.” He said.
“ The skills your learnin’ will help our struggle.” The official continued. “The problem is the British have brought in the MI5 to monitor and follow people like me, so we have no alternative but to keep well out of the way.” He pointed to O’Brien. “ Patrick here has no past, as far as the British intelligence knows, so he’s a very important man.”
“You see Jock, MI5 are beginning to gather intelligence from the province,” O’Brien said, “People like,” he hesitated, “well like him,” he pointed to the stranger, “will be watched.” He continued. “ So it’s important that we can keep you, ‘up our sleeve’, so to speak.”
The stranger leant forward, and held Jock’s forearm, his deep eyes penetrated Jock’s soul “ You are a very important member, of a very important team, your skills will be called upon time after time,” He waited for a moment, his voice lowered menacingly, “let us down and your family will feel the consequences.”
Steen’s body went rigid as the words sank in, his eyes widened and he looked into the sub conscious of the PIRA man. “ Make no mistake, if my family are harmed in any way I’ll…”
O’Brien butted in. “ There’s no way your family will be harmed, their safety is not in question. What my friend here means is that you are in a unique position, these people don’t know you as I do Jock, They’re vulnerable, and don’t know who to trust.” He turned to the PIRA man. “ I’m telling you, this man is not the type who would sell to the highest bidder. I encouraged him to join the British Army, up until that point he was for joining any organisation that would right the wrongs of his Catholic family and the death of his Da’.”
Steen and the PIRA man sat back, each respecting the position of O’Brien.
“What have you for us?” O’Brien continued,
Jock sat silent for a moment and eyed the PIRA man. Letting out a sigh, he went to his briefcase and took out a series of lecture notes used on his sniper’s course, and handed them over.
The PIRA man smiled as he noted the pamphlet’s heading…
‘SCHOOL OF INFANTRY
SNIPER TRAINING
(RESTRICTED)
W02 EVANS
FOR OFFICER COMMANDING’
“ This is exactly what we need Jock,” he said as he thumbed the pages, “of course, we will need to supplement this with practical experience.” He looked straight into Jock Steen’s eyes, “ you are our link, can you come up with the goods? Can you train our active service units?”
“ Sure, he can.” O’Brien intervened. “ Make no mistake, he is more than capable of sharing his experiences with our ‘comrades in arms’ aren’t you Jock?”
Steen nodded as he slid his eyes from the PIRA man to O’Brien.
“As O’Brien knows Jock, we are having problems with weapons, most of the ones we’ve recovered from secret stores are old and rusting.”
“What have you got?” Jock was curious.
“ Well, not much, a few Thompson Sub-machine-guns, two M.1 carbines, a Spanish ‘Star’ automatic pistol, and a German Walther P38, a number of .22 rifles, and five .38 Webley’s”
“ Not much to build an Army, eh Jock.” O’Brien was trying to ease the conversation in the wake of the mistrust of his PIRA contact.
“ We’d appreciate your thoughts on the best weapons for the type of work we’re going to be doin’. We were thinking of Belgium FN’s.”
“ Too long and heavy. The M1’s a good weapon, short and light with plenty of power, makes it an easy weapon to conceal, yet has an effective range of three hundred and thirty yards.”
“The ones we have, we got from friends in America they’re second world war issue,” The PIRA man paused for a moment, “no,” he continued I can’t see us getting enough of them.”
“ In that case, I’d go for the Armalite AR-18, an inch longer, weighing in at 7.75 pounds when it’s loaded, the range increases to around five hundred yards, I’d say it was ideally suited.”
O’Brien put his arm around his protégé’s shoulder tugging him a little. He spoke to his Irish contact. “See, I told you he was good!”
The PIRA man’s stern face mellowed slightly as he responded. “You did indeed, and I can see that your trust has not been misplaced.”
“Anything else?” Jock asked.
“Well we are in a position to buy a number of RPG-7 Portable Rocket Launchers, what’s your thoughts on them?”
“ I have no thoughts, I know nothing about them. Just remember to tell your Army whose side I’m on when they start firing.” Jock’s remark broke the ice.
The trio talked late into the night. Steen suggested that weapon training should begin straight away. It was decided that the training could be done along the banks of the Shannon, using the .22’s and the Webley’s, which could be adapted easily to cut down the noise and power.
Although the meeting had a cold start, by 3 a.m., the three had agreed their roles, and Jock Steen was formerly taken into the swelling ranks of the PIRA. Although it would be some time before his existence would be properly announced to other members.
…
Thursday, 3 June 2010
Derrick Bird
Derrick Bird's multple shootings in Cumbria put my mind back more than twenty years to the day I was interviewed about the shootings in Hungerford. In my mind that event was as new as yesterday's killings. Back then I was writing for Survival Weaponry and Techniques a magazine for the 'would be' survivalist. Hugo Davenport of the Daily Telegraph interviewed me and put it to me that I was teaching military and mercenary techniques and that anyone who wanted to 'make a name' for themselves could use the skills I was writing about to devastating effect! I've thought about that very point hundreds of times since and although I can see the logic my considered opinion now is that it isn't the teacher, the techniques or the weapons it is the person the man, or woman who has to 'vent their anger' show the world that they exist, or simply want to 'have their pound of flesh'.
One of the arguments following these types of incidents is that guns should be banned. Legislation led by similar incidents have seen a tightening of the rules around personal weapons. Hand guns are no longer legally held in private hands. According to the reports Bird has used a shotgun and .22 rifle. Both apparently licensed to him as they are to thgousands of law abiding well balanced citizens across the UK. If Bird didn't have those weapons would he have let what ever motivated him to come to nothing? I doubt it. He would have found another way to make his point. He could have used a home made weapon, a knife, poison, his car. No, my considered position is that allowing individuals to keep guns does not leas to mass killings.
One of the arguments following these types of incidents is that guns should be banned. Legislation led by similar incidents have seen a tightening of the rules around personal weapons. Hand guns are no longer legally held in private hands. According to the reports Bird has used a shotgun and .22 rifle. Both apparently licensed to him as they are to thgousands of law abiding well balanced citizens across the UK. If Bird didn't have those weapons would he have let what ever motivated him to come to nothing? I doubt it. He would have found another way to make his point. He could have used a home made weapon, a knife, poison, his car. No, my considered position is that allowing individuals to keep guns does not leas to mass killings.
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