The Undercover Soldier

“You should think about volunteering for the new special duties unit.” Ackerman said as I dropped him off at Aldergrove airport.
“I wouldn’t know how to.” I said as I passed him his kit.
“Look on Part One Orders.” Eddy McGees‘s Yorkshire accent was unmistakable.
Tony Ball didn’t want to be the only one not to comment. “Or speak to your Chief Clerk.” He added.
Minutes later I was on my way back to Bessbrook with my Commando escort. The C130 Hercules aircraft lumbered overhead, leaving a trail of burnt gases lingering in the cold evening air, as it transported the first recruits to the newly formed Reconnaissance Group.
The journey back was uneventful, the roads were unusually quiet, only the drone of military traffic ferrying the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers to the airport disturbed the night air. Their four month tour over, they would be with their loved ones within a day.
Back at Bessbrook Mill, I cleared my weapon before reporting to the OP’s room, to await my next duty. I’d already been ‘duty driver’ for twelve hours and was beginning to lapse into unconsciousness when 2nd Lt John Lair arrived with his section.
“Oh good, driver Griffiths is on.” He said as he handed his movement orders to the duty clerk. He turned to me and smiled. “You look like shite.”
“Thanks Sir.” I said as I started to force myself back to life.
“We’re going to do some head checks in the New Lodge area.” He’d slept all day, and now, was raring to go. “Come on man, get your act together.”
I smiled as best I could and collected my webbing and SLR. “On my way Sir.” I responded on ‘auto pilot’. It was difficult to string words together, my mouth and brain were working in different levels of consciousness.
Through the night, we worked the now, familiar routine… I’d drive into a dark, sleepy, street, stop the Pig and cover the Marines as they ran along garden paths, breaking down the doors of a suspect’s house, before running up the stairs and into sleep filled bedrooms, ordering the occupants downstairs where they were checked against military and civil lists.
Every now and again we’d find a player (involved with a terrorist organisation), but, for the most part, we did nothing more than turn the public against us. This particular night was no exception and our ‘head check’ sortie was getting us no where. 2nd Lt Lair decided to change tack and set up a VCP (Vehicle Check Point) at the junction of New Lodge Road and North Queen Street.
Minutes later I was kneeling at the rear of my vehicle, covering the Marines as they flagged down passing motorists and checked their ID’s. It was the early hours of the morning. Rain poured down, the wet and cold, winter air, was penetrating deep into my body. I was exhausted, sixteen hours of duty were wearing me down. My eyes were scanning the Artillery Flats, I was having difficulty focussing, the rain, cold and tiredness, all playing their part. In a split second the feeling left me as a shot rang out, the round hitting the floor inches from me. Without thinking, I threw myself to the ground, rolled away, cocking my weapon as I did, and came to rest in a perfect position to return fire. A second shot zipped over the Pig, I could see the flash of the offending weapon to the side of a building, and called the location to everyone around me. Marines were diving for cover as a third round came thudding into the side of the armoured car. This time I was ready and returned fire. A chunk of masonry flew from the corner of the building above the terrorist’s head. For the firs time I could properly see the target as he ducked away from the splintering debris. I took aim at the bulk of his body and squeezed the trigger, controlling my pounding heart and breathing slowly I fired. At the same time, several other shots rang out all around me as the Marine’s also located the target. I watched as the figure jerked, and virtually stood up with the impact of the 7.62 mm round that hit him. Everything went quiet, the figure blown back out of sight, denied us any further action. As I climbed aboard my vehicle I could hear the radio operator giving details of the shooting to our OP’s room. Marines loaded, I drove like a mad man to the terrorist’s position. I brought the Pig to a screeching halt, the Marines ‘de-bussed’ and took up, all round defensive positions, for fear of a ambush, or booby trap, before searching the immediate area. I sat with the engine running and rear doors wide open, ready to make a quick getaway, or to chase a suspect vehicle. Nothing happened, eventually, 2nd Lair, moved his section forward, each man, covering the next until they were at the terrorists location. There was nothing to be seen, except the spent cases from the Armalite Rifle, and a lot of his blood.
I watched, as the strong searchlight from the Army Air Corps’ helicopter illuminated areas of the surrounding streets and buildings, in an effort to locate the terrorists, but to no avail, the place was deserted.
Back at base, I had time to reflect on the encounter as I waited for a visit from the SIB (Special Investigation Branch-Army Detectives). During training I’d often wondered how I would react under fire, and now I knew. I was surprised as I didn’t feel at all frightened at the time and as if on auto pilot, I followed my training instructions to the letter. Now, though, in the calm of my room I began to shake, and the realisation that I’d shot someone, didn’t rest easy with me.
Although absolutely tired out, after being on duty for twenty hours, I sat and gave my report to the SIB and another man, who, I later found out, was from the RUC Special Branch. Towards the end of my report, Robert Nairac, dressed in dirty civilian clothes, came into the room and told us that a man with a severe gunshot wound to the chest had been admitted into Victoria Park Hospital, at 3.30 a.m. and had since died of his injury.
“I take it this was your handy work.” He said when he saw me in the interview room.
Before I could respond, the police stood up and ushered Nairac from the room, leaving me alone for about fifteen minutes. When they returned, they told me that they couldn’t confirm a kill, nor were they able to positively confirm that it was my shot that hit the gunman. Following the interview my SLR was taken away for forensic analyses.
The day after, I drove over to the RCT HQ at Moscow Camp, near to Belfast’s Harland and Wolfe ship building yards. At the HQ, the CO of 47 Air Dispatch and the camp Adjutant greeted me, along with my Troop commander, Captain White. Since my arrival in the province this was my first visit to the HQ, and, although Captain White had visited Bessbrook, on a number of occasions, I had been out working.
In the aftermath of the shooting, they had wanted to congratulate me on the work I was doing with 45. Apparently, the Bessbrook contingent had sent through a number of good reports about my conduct. I didn’t know it at the time, but this action was the first 47 Air Depsatch had been involved in, as many of the lads were deployed in general duty transport roles based at Moscow camp, the RCT Headquarters near Belafast docks.
After the short, but, nevertheless, appreciated welcome, I made my way to the armoury to collect another SLR. Weapon in hand, I was walking past the admin block when a voice I didn’t recognise called to me, through a tinted window. I went inside and was surprised to see Fred Holder, sitting on the Chief Clerk’s desk. I’d only been in contact with Fred for a short time during the intelligence briefing and the trip to Lisburn, so I was surprised when he remembered me.
“I hear you’ve bagged a player.” He said as I walked towards him.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “It could have been any one of four, three Marines also fired on him.”
“Yes, I know, but none of them think they hit him. In the ‘Mess Stakes’, you are favourite.”
“You’d better have been, Griff, or I’m out a fiver.” The Chief Clerk, strained his neck to look around the sitting figure, his tiny head, and sharp nose reminding me of a Cormorant I’d seen fishing in the water as I’d driven past HMS Belfast.
“What’re you doing here sir?” I asked Holder.
“Getting my movement order to join the Reconnaissance Force.”
His reply surprised me as I was under the impression that recruitment was from either serving or former members of the Special Forces, which, he wasn’t.
“I didn’t know they were recruiting outside Special Forces.” My voice echoed my surprise.
“Yeah,” The Chief’s head and neck appeared again, “The DCI’s here.” He said as he handed me a piece of paper.
Taking it from him, I read it slowly, to myself. “What’s this about?”
I asked.
Holder snatched it from me. “As it says,” He read it allowed. “Volunteers from all three services are required for selection and training for hazardous intelligence duties in Northern Ireland.” He put the paper down and turned around. “Chief here can put your name down if you want.”
“How about it Griffiths?” The Chief asked.
“Yeah, OK, I’ll have a go.” I said without thinking.
“The CO will have to agree it though.” The Chief said, as he wrote my name down.
The words hung in the air as Captain White walked in. “The Boss will have to agree what?” He joined in the conversation as he placed a bundle of papers on the Chief’s desk.
“Young Griffiths here wants to apply for hazardous duties.” The Chief replied as he picked up the bundle and thumbed through it.
“Well, you’re certainly fit enough, I should say.” Cpt White paused before continuing. “I wonder though, whether you fully understand what you’re letting yourself in for?”
“I think so, Sir.” I said, but in fact, I had no idea.
I made my way back to Bessbrook, and thought no more about it.
The morning after, I was tasked to take a section of 45 to Antrim, where they were meeting up with some of the Royal Greenjackets for a joint operation. As I was driving through Belfast a huge explosion ripped through the streets. In front of me I could see dozens of birds flying amidst black and yellow, smoke. I put my foot down and turned into University Street. Half way down the remains of a building were strewn across the street, people from adjoining properties were running around, holding their ears and screaming many of them were bleeding. We radioed our position and went to help. The police and another Army foot patrol joined us. We feared a second explosion, but put that to back of our minds, as we tended to the wounded and dying. Having secured my vehicle, I went straight to the, now smouldering, building. In the rubble I could see a hand moving, the rest of the body being obscured by a part of a bed. I pulled the bed back and came face to face with a mutilated torso, the body had been torn in two by the force of the explosion. The contents of its stomach oozed out, a mixture of dark green, brown and red, surrounded by shredded flesh, was all that was left below the rib cage. The rest of the body and head was a mass of deep jagged wounds, a flap of scalp, covered with black hair had been blown back, leaving the skull exposed. I couldn’t work out if this was a man or woman, there was no clue. For a moment I couldn’t take my eyes off the remains, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. By the time I regained my self I was aware that an ambulance crew were standing above the building’s cellar, which was now nothing more than a hole in the ground, surrounded by smouldering bricks and dusty lengths of broken timber. I struggled over the debris to reach them and looked down. Four or five stone steps were perfectly in place, leading below ground. Leaning against a wall at the bottom sat a shredded body, its eyes continually blinking as it struggled to gain some grip on life. Before the explosion this was a young woman in her early twenties, now, she was reduced to a whimpering pathetic lump of scorched meat. Her breasts, were empty, only the strands of skin were left, hanging like ribbons, dripping blood. There was nothing anyone could do. We watched in silence as, what was left of her nervous system, twitched and jerked as it fought to keep her alive. Her eyes kept staring at us, non of us could move. There was very little of her face and neck left, yet she was sobbing, we could clearly hear her weak voice moaning.
All around us soldiers, medics, police and firemen were searching the debris. A fleet of civilian and army ambulances were ferrying the injured away. Then, it all stopped and I found myself running with the rest of them as an ATO (Ammunitions Technical Officer) shouted through a loud hailer, ordering us to clear the area. Unknown to us, the house had been a bomb factory, the bodies, we’d found were a team of bomb makers, who’s terrorist work had gone horribly wrong.
I watched from a safe distance as the ATO, clad in a heavy, unmanageable bomb protection suite, made his way down the cellar steps and slowly moved rubble, brick by brick, as he searched for explosives and bomb making equipment. The process was painfully slow, each of us holding our breath, time after time, as we watched him, make the area safe. As though he hadn’t enough to contend with, there were reports that a sniper had been seen in the area. Immediately, our thoughts turned to the protection of our bomb disposal man. Each of us turned our eyes away from him and scanned the surrounding buildings, searching for a sign of a gunman. There was nothing to be seen.
‘This is terrorism at its worse, or best, depending on your point of view’, I thought as I drove the section back to Bessbrook.
Our original task had been ‘scrubbed’ to give us a chance to draw fresh uniforms, as the ones we were wearing looked more like butchers aprons, than the ‘Queen’s Uniform’.
Back at Bessbrook, I went to the stores, dressed in my PT kit and carrying my blood stained combats. The storeman, was a tall thin sergeant, in his thirties. Although his cap badge showed he was from the Royal Army Ordnance Corps, he wore the coveted green beret associated with Royal Marine Commandos, signifying that he was a member of the Commando Logistic Regiment, and had completed the ‘All Arms’ Commando course. I joined a waiting line of Marines, watched him take the ‘contaminated’ combats from each man and hand a new set back.
“Name.” He said without bothering to look up from his bundle of papers.
“Griffiths.” I replied as I put the soiled uniform on the counter.
He thumbed his way through the bundle. “You’re not in here,” he looked puzzled. “You’re not due to be posted?” He asked.
“If I am its news to me.” I joked.
He turned around and made his way to another set of papers, and once again thumbed his way through. “Here we are,” he said as he lifted out a sheet detailing my kit allocation. “I thought you said you weren’t posted!”
“I aren’t.” I said, not attaching too much importance to where my documents were stored.
“Well, according to this you are. You’re RTU’d (Returned to Unit).”
“There must be a mistake.” I said. The Army made the odd mistake from time to time, so once again I didn’t think anything of it.
After some muttering about how he should have the right documents in the right folder, he issued me with a new set of combats. I made my way through the tight alleys leading back to my room. It was a very cold night. I was shattered and couldn’t get the sight, and sound of the days events out of my mind.
I opened the door, the single light bulb, struggled to fill the crowded room with its orange light. The room had been designed to accommodate a manager’s office, now, it housed our steel, tube, bunk beds and our combat kit. I stepped quietly over a mound of webbing, which had been dumped in the centre. Each bed had two brackets designed to hold the SLRs we all carried. Only one space was vacant, and I leaned over to clip my weapon into it. The room smelt of bodies, the snoring marines, were deep, in a much needed sleep. A row of grey, steel, lockers half covered the office windows that overlooked the ‘factory’ floor, which, was likewise, crammed with beds, webbing, weapons and men.
I carefully put my combats away, and slipped out of my PT kit, placing it on the end of my bunk. I eased my self onto the bed, the creaking springs, disturbing the marine below me.
A distinct, Birmingham accent floated up. “Ave’ yer bin, over the Ops room?”
“No.” I said as quietly as I could.
“The Chief Clerk’s been over, he wants to see ya right away.”
“Fuck sake.” I said as I eased my weary body over the side. “What’s he want?”
“A Dunno. Put the light out willya.” A ruffle of sheets and twanging springs told me he didn’t want to go any further with the conversation.
I grabbed my PT kit, climbed into it once again and made my way to the OP’s room. It was midnight. The radio operators were listening to the patrols, my entrance had little effect on them. The duty officer sat at his desk, writing in the light of a small desk lamp. He looked up, but again, took no notice of me. I opened the door marked ‘CHIEF CLERK’. It was dark, the light from the Ops room shone in, and picked out a single grey tube bed. As the light hit it, the Chief threw back a single blanket. Fully clothed, he swung his legs over the side, placed his feet on the floor, and fumbled for the bedside light, scratching his head, and yawning as he found the switch.
“You wanted to see me Chief.” I announced as the light came on.
“Did I,” he said without looking at me, “why’s that then?”
“I don’t know Chief, it’s driver Griffiths.” I said.
“Oh, yes, Griffiths.” He stood up and moved across to his desk, putting the main light on as he went. He looked across at me. I hadn’t seen him before, he was older than most of the men at Bessbrook, probably in his mid-forties. He was very tall, and reminded me of my Dad. “A movement order has come through for you today.” He told me. “You’re to hand your bedding in tomorrow morning, and report to your own Chief Clerk at Moscow camp by fourteen hundred hours. I’ve arranged transport for you, at thirteen hundred.”
“Any idea what’s up?” I asked.
“None,” he looked at the signal he’d received earlier, “It says here that this is a sensitive signal, and your not to discuss your movement with anyone.”
“Thanks Chief”, I said as I closed the door.
“Griffiths” The Chief shouted me back, I opened the door and peered in. “I’ve allocated your bed to the new driver, he’ll be here at noon. Have your kit sorted and be out of the room by then.”
I nodded, and left the Ops room in a bit of a daze. The last time this sort of ‘secrecy’ was placed on me was when I was waiting for the interview from the SIB after the shooting. I ‘racked my brains’, trying to work out what they would want to interview me for, this time.
Although I was tired, I slept intermittently, my mind racing between the horrors of the bomb and the uncertainty of the reason for my RTU.
The morning came quicker than I wanted and I found myself fighting to clear my sleepy head and get on with the laborious job of handing my bedding and weapon in, and getting a clearance note from the stores. I managed to get my act together, and before I knew it I was carrying my kit up the concrete steps and into 47 Air Dispatch’s Admin block at Moscow Camp. Once in the block, I was greeted by WO2 Grieves, at thirty eight, he was one of the old boys, his round face and body showed that he’d started to kerb his active military life, he was standing in for WO1 James, 47’s Chief Clerk.
“Driver Griffiths” His deep Welsh tones filled the air between us. “You have been chosen to go for selection to the newly formed Military Reconnaissance Force.”
“The what force, Chief?” I enquired.
“Hazardous duties, Griffiths, you applied for it, now you’ve got it.” He said, without any sign of emotion.
I’d not thought about my hasty request in any detail, now, all of a sudden, I was unsure about the whole thing. “So what happens now Chief?” My mind was on auto pilot. I was too tired to think too deeply about it.
“Firstly, you are not to mention it to anyone, understand, Griffiths” He continued before I could answer. “You are not to discuss this with anyone. You are not to tell anyone what you are up to.” The Chief spoke slowly and deliberately, making sure I understood every word. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I said, realising that this was important stuff.
“OK.” He knew I was just coming to terms with it. “Now,” he said, “the CO wants to see you.”
I didn’t need this, I was very tired, and too confused. Nevertheless, this had to be done and so I walked across to a small ‘portakabin’ surrounded with newly painted RCT blue and white oil drums. WO2 Grieves walked by my side. I could see several of my mates, who were working at Moscow, wondering what the hell was going on. Seeing me being paraded in front of the CO, they must have thought I’d done something wrong.
At the CO’s office, I was met by Captain Chris Keeble. His bright blue eyes, and striking blonde hair, shone, nearly as much as his broad smile. He shook my hand, something which doesn’t normally happen between man and officer. It threw me for a second. “We’ll see one another soon.” He said, and continued, “Well done, well done.” He was overjoyed, and left the office without another word.
I walked in and came face to face with the CO. He had an unusually warm smile, and greeted me as though we were on equal terms, which we were not.
He stuck out his hand and grabbed mine.
“Driver Griffiths,” his handshake was warm and friendly, “I’m very pleased to be able to recommend you for service with the newly formed Reconnaissance Force. I’m sure that the Chief has told you about the need for the utmost secrecy in this matter.”
“Yes Sir.” I said.
“Good,” the CO continued, “I have had to put a report in about you, letting the Int’ (Intelligence Corps), boys know that, I feel you are of the right stuff, and all that.” He stumbled around his words, reminding me of Prince Philip. “I am sure you will make a very good ‘operator’. I have also told them about your education problems, which, I understand from Chiefy here,” he nodded to WO2 Grieves. “You have started to overcome by extra tuition.” He looked at me as though I should answer.
“That’s right Sir,” I responded, “When I was stationed with 16 Tank Transporters, I attended the education unit. I’ve continued with that, and still have extra tuition over here.”
“Yes, so I understand.” He smiled as though he really cared. “That’s what I’ve told them.”
“Thank you Sir.” I said without knowing what I was thanking him for.
He turned away, and walked back to his desk. “No one must know your reason for being RTU’d.” He said with a very serious expression. “You are forbidden from disclosing your whereabouts, or your training to anyone, at any time. Do you fully understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes Sir.” I was getting fed up with this cloak and dagger routine, although the CO would not have detected it from my answers.
“The only people who know of this outside the Reconnaissance Group, is myself, our Chiefy, and Captain Keeble.” His voice lowered, as he held his hand out once more. “I can only wish you good luck.” He said, as he shook my hand for a second time.
I walked back with the Chief. Once again, mates of mine were watching me, and whispering to each other, all wondering what I’d done wrong.
“Here’s your movement details.” The Chief passed me a set of ‘joining instructions’. “You are to go straight to the Intelligence HQ in Ashford, Kent.”
I briefly read the instructions, which said nothing more than the Chief had told me, other than to give me details of the kit I should take with me, and my movement details “What about my kit in Lyneham?” I asked.
“It is being boxed up at the moment and will remain in stores until you get an RTU, or pass the course, in which case it will be sent to you.”
I read the kit list…
‘KIT PT = 1, DRESS WORKING = 1, PLIMSOLLS, = 1, BOOTS DMS = 1, DRAWS ARMY = 1, KFS (Knife Fork and Spoon), MUG ARMY ISSUE, TOWELS GREEN = 2, PERSONAL WASH KIT. YOU SHOULD ALSO BRING WITH YOU ONE CHANGE OF CIVILIAN CLOTHING. THE WHOLE SHOULD BE PACKED IN ONE LARGE KIT BAG AND A SMALL BAG CARRIED AS HAND LUGGAGE.
“There’s not much kit here.” I said more to myself than the Chief Clerk.
“Have you read the movement order?” He asked.
I turned the page. ‘YOU ARE TO FOLLOW THE DESIGNATED ROUTE, AT THE TIMES SPECIFIED. YOU MUST NOT DISCLOSE YOUR MOVEMENT DETAILS TO ANYONE. YOU MUST NOT USE ANY ALTERNATIVE ROUTES. YOU MUST NOT USE YOUR OWN VEHICLES FOR ANY PART OF THE JOURNEY. YOU MUST NOT TRAVEL IN UNIFORM.’
The rest of the paperwork listed the times and destinations of the various, transport I’d be using to make my way to Ashford. I spent the next twenty minutes, in the Chief Clerks office, rearranging my kit, and changing into my civilian clothes. A four month tour of Northern Ireland doesn’t require you to use much kit, so the task was easy. My remaining kit, and a few personal belongings I packed into a heavy cardboard box, which I sealed with broad, black, adhesive tape. I marked the box in black felt pen, with my Army number, rank, name and 47’s Lyneham address.
“Just leave it there.” The Chief Clerk said as I put the marker pen back onto his desk. “I’ll see to it.” He picked up the internal telephone and dialled the Guard Room. “He’s ready now.” The Chief said nothing more and put the telephone down. Moments later two of 47’s Regimental Police appeared. I picked up my two bags and walked with them. As I was about to leave the room the Chief, spoke unusually quietly. “Good luck.” He said.
Outside, we walked to the vehicle park. Neither of the RP’s spoke to me. On the park a canvass sided, Army, Bedford MK four ton, stood with the engine running. Sitting in the back were two rows of 47’s soldiers, ready for the journey to RAF Aldergrove, and the flight home for their, mid tour, four day ‘R and R’, (Rest and Recuperation). Naturally, I walked towards the waiting vehicle. Several of my mates were patiently waiting. It was obvious from their expressions that they were expecting, as I was, for me to climb onboard. Without a word, one of the RPs pulled at my jacket, and pointed me towards a waiting Saracen. I threw my kit on and climbed in, between two RCT escorts. Again, not a word was spoken. We sat in absolute silence, throughout the journey to Aldergrove airport. On arrival, I was met by an RAF policeman and taken to a departure lounge away from the troops, waiting to board the RAF’s VC10, which was waiting on the tarmac’.
Moments later, I was escorted to my seat, at the front of the narrow bodied aircraft. I sat alone, and began the journey to Ashford in a now familiar silence.
…

PHONE HACKING POLICE TACTIC

POLICE PHONE HACKERS

Ever wondered why the police have not properly investigated the phone hacking allegations. Well how about this….

The police have used the same techniques time and time again. Illegal it is and they knew that but they justified their illegal activity by stating that they needed information that they could only get by illegally tapping and hacking phones.

As a private investigator I have been approached on many occasions by all sorts of people to listen in to phone calls. I don’t know of any PI that has not been approached. Most of the UK PI’s will have declined this business, but, many would not have. Those who took the business on would have made a considerable amount of money, not only from the jealous spouse but also from very respectable people in our society, including the police and special branch. I understand this. When your back is against the wall and you need evidence police or not, the route to that evidence may well be illegal but, they would argue, necessary! So imagine how they must have felt when they were asked to investigate phone hacking and other illegal listening devices and techniques. They must have had a near melt down. “What if our enquiries lead back to us?”, “What if the investigators we’ve used ever told the truth?” What a nightmare. You can understand their dilemma. Can’t you?

The last thing the police want is a full and frank investigation. They have colluded with the Fleet Street journalists and now have to protect them by not fully investigating the allegations…..

Just a thought, I may be wrong…….

Kenn Griffiths.

LEAVE A SECRET SAFE AND SECURE

LEAVE YOUR STORY SAFELY ONLY TO BE SEEN BY THE PERSON OR PERSONS YOU CHOOSE.


What is a Life Story Heritage?

It’s anything you want it to be. It could be that you have a real secret that you don’t want to disclose until after your death. Or it could be that you have a special person that only you know about and that you want to leave them with a memory of you or tell them how you really felt.

Maybe you have a confession or need to leave instructions or directions.

What about writing a story and having it read by your family and friends later in life.

You may have a missing family link and want to leave a message for absent family members or friends that are found after your death.

How about this……

You are being threatened by someone and you have something on them. If they touch your story about them will be told even if you are dead!

Good eh!

Or, you have secret documents. Why not scan them into your Life-Story-Legacy. No one other than you has access to your Legacy, unless of course you give them the access code.

Visit our Life Story Legacy at http://www.mychildcontact.com and click on Life Story.

I'm A Celebrity

15th November 2010 By Andy Jones

Your Shout ( 1 )

I’M A Celebrity is back and the nation’s favourite method of star torture has got us all glued to our TV sets.


And, of course, the main thing we all look forward to is the gruesome Bushtucker Trials, where the celebs have to chow down all manner of disgusting bugs.

But it’s not just Oz where you can feast on some of the strangest creatures out there. There’s plenty available in Britain.

The Daily Star scoured the woodlands and markets of the country to find the UK’s most stomach-churning snacks.

Then we tried them out, with the help of Kenn Griffiths, army survival instructor and author of The Survival Manual.

WAIT OUT part 14

Jock Steen lay on his bunk bed, exhausted from another eighteen hour duty in the cold of the OP’s (Observation Posts) around New Lodge. Keeping his eyes open and his wits sharpened was hard, but the conversation between his ‘mates’ was important. He listened intently as Corporal Davis told them about the formation of the special operations unit.
“ Who told ya aboot that then.” Steen sat up as the news sank in.
Corporal Davis slid his webbing to the ground, his heavy magazines landing with a loud clang, which disturbed another sleeping soldier. His pinched face was pale, his eyes bulging from lack of sleep. “ The RCT driver told me.” He continued. “He took J.C. for a high powered meeting to HQ last week. Apparently, everybody who is somebody over here was there.”
“ The CO (Commanding Officer) went oot? I didna’ know, no one mentioned that to me.” Jock realised he’d missed the opportunity he’d been waiting for. The killing of Lieutenant Colonel Jeremy C Reilly would have been a major triumph.
“ No reason why you should know, it was strictly a need to know basis, even the escort and driver didn’t know until fifteen minutes before they went out.” The conversation ended, Davis threw himself on the bed and was asleep within seconds.
Steen made his way to the telephone kiosk outside the ops’ room. A row of soldiers waited patiently to phone home. Steen joined the que, the damp, cold, grey air engulfed him. next to the OP’s room, the CO’s office light burned brightly, JC’s head was in a perfect position for a sniper’s ‘head shot’. Jock noted the movement as the CO held his Court, several of the Regiment’s high ranking officers responded to the unheard words with the nod of a head and the scribble of pen. Steen’s mind raced as he fantasised about the death of so many of his officers and the acclaim he would have from his mentor and his PIRA handlers. His desire to kill was becoming overwhelming, time after time he would plan the death of a colleague, or innocent Protestant he saw in the course of his duties.
O’Brien was aware of Steen’s frustrations, they were evident as Jock told him about the latest deployment of troops in the New Lodge area, and the formation of the specialist under cover operation.
“We need to know more about that organisation Jock.” O’Brien’s voice showed his excitement. “This is exactly why your role is so important to us. I know you want to be at the forefront of the fight, but believe me, you are more use to us where you are.”
“ A dunna want te be ‘ere, sucking up to these fuckin’ bullshit bastards all around me.” His outburst in front of so many of his colleagues, threatened to blow his cover.
O’Brien had sensed for some time that Steen was loosing it. “You’ve got just three weeks to do before your tour ends.” He reminded Steen. “Don’t jeopardise our operation now.”
“I hear what yer sayin.” Steen’s voice calmed a little.
“How will they recruit into this new unit?”
“A dunna know, but a would think through the SAS.”
“What are your chances of getting into the SAS?”
“A’ve no idea.” Jock was aware that he’d been on the phone for some time, he sensed the line of soldiers behind him were becoming agitated as they waited for him to finish his. “I’ll apply as soon as possible.”
“Let me know the outcome as soon as you can, will you do that?” O’Brien asked.
Steen was about to answer as a voice from the que shouted to him. “For fuck’s sake Jock, come on, everyone agreed, no more than four minutes.”
Steen turned around, his eyes widened as he singled out the soldier from B Company. “Will ya keep ya fucking gob shut, I’ll tak’ as long I want.” his voice bounced off the buildings, a murmur of disapproval met him as he turned back to his call. Once again the soldier’s voice rang out “Come fucking on Jock.”
Without another word Steen let the telephone go, and ran at the soldier, with fists and boots flying, he pounded the unsuspecting Fusilier, who fell to the ground, injured and bleeding. Before the rest of the que could intervene, Steen sank the heel of his boot deep into the side of the man’s face, a sickening crack ended the attack. Steen showed no remorse as he went back to the telephone. The continuous tone signalled that O’Brien had hung up. With one snatch, Steen ripped the mouth piece from the kiosk.
“Now fuckin’ use it.” He said as he threw it to the ground.
Back in his room, his mates could see he had ‘one of his moods’ on him and said nothing for fear, of his now notorious, temper. Before he could get to his bed two of the Regiment’s police arrived, arrested him and escorted him to the OC’s office.
“I’m placing you under open arrest, Fusilier Steen, for the unprovoked assault on a fellow soldier.” The OC’s words seemed to have no effect. “You could make a dammed good soldier Steen, but there’s a part of you that cannot be trusted.” The officer could see that his words were unheeded, “Take him away.”
Moments later Steen lay on his bed, under ‘open arrest’ he would be paraded before the CO the next day for his punishment. Sleep took over, his conscience clear, he fell into deep slumber.
The CO had been well briefed about the rising concerns of Fusilier Steen’s colleagues and Officer’s, those concerns were reflected in the CO’s summing up.
Steen, flanked by two Regimental Police, stood to attention in front of the CO’s desk, his belt and berry removed and carried by the Regimental Sergeant Major.
“I’ve heard the events surrounding last night’s assault and can say that I am appalled by your actions. I’ve listened to the comments about you, from your superiors, and share the concerns they have about you. By all accounts, you are a thoroughly nasty piece of work. You will have to change your ways if you intend to continue with your military service!” The CO stopped suddenly and shuffled a pile of papers. “Now,” he continued, “do you accept my punishment, or do you wish to be tried by Courts Martial.”
Steen answered without hesitation. “ I accept your punishment Sir.”
“OK, then I sentence you to thirty days imprisonment. You, will be flown from here today, taken back to Catterick, where you will carry out your sentence in the Garrison’s prison. Do you understand?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Take him away RSM.”
…

Telephone Bugging

TELEPHONE BUGGING/HACKING

I’ve been a private investigator since 1994 and I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t approached by someone who wanted a telephone bugged. Of course I didn’t take the work on as it is an illegal act. However, all of these enquirers would have found someone who hacked into the telephone conversation and no doubt charged a lot of money for the information.

People are now asking why the police are not following up these illegal phone tapping acts. Well in the first place it’s not an easy investigation as much of the work is carried out covertly and the equipment is left in place with very little evidence at the scene to connect the hacker or ‘bugger’ to the crime. Also, the police do not always know about the intelligence gathering of other agencies and as such, they are not going to tell anyone who they suspect of being bugged just in case they upset another Government department.

When I am not approached to bug somewhere I am approached to carry out electronic counter measures or ‘sweeps’. This of course I do carry out as it is not an illegal act. In essence this involves bringing in sophisticated electronic equipment that searches for bugs. Simple! No, not at all. I have seen a lot of so called counter measure sweeps that were no more that a couple of guys turning up with screw drivers and extremely simple battery operated equipment designed to scan the airways for signals. They are great at finding radio stations but are not capable of detecting the kind of equipment used in professional electronic surveillance.

If you have any questions about this interesting subject then please feel free to jump onto my web site http://www.kenngriffiths.com and send me a mail.

WAIT OUT part 13 Contact!

Five days after ‘the night of terror’, as the Fusiliers would forever call it, I looked out from the RAF’s VC10. A plume of smoke drifted up to meet us as we banked over Belfast on our final approach. The rows of tiny houses growing larger and coming to life as Belfast’s Aldergrove airport appeared below us. Within minutes of landing, we were whisked out of sight, issued with ‘flak jackets’ (bullet proof vests), given our destination, told which transport to board, and began our journeys across the city to our allocated units. I sat alone in the back of the vehicle, aware that the, heavy armoured vehicle, was shielding me from the long lines of mourners who had come to pay their respect to the Pub’s dead.
Although it was difficult to see or hear what was going on outside, I was aware that we were moving through busy streets. The Saracen’s driver and escort said nothing, each concentrating on the journey. As we turned sharply left, I could clearly hear two high velocity shots. In recognition the vehicle lurched as the driver put his foot down, swinging it from side to side as he swerved in an effort to escape the line of fire.
“What’s happening?” I shouted as I clung to the vehicle’s sides.
“Shots, two of them”. Came the escort’s reply. “Just hang on, you’ll be ok”.
My SLR, (Self-Loading Rifle) had hardly been unpacked and here I was poised to use it at any moment. “Where about are we?” My voice only just managed to get over the screams of the powerful engine.
“North Queen Street”. The driver replied.
Before I could say anything else the heavy armoured car screeched to a stop, the momentum throwing me across the floor.
“Bollocks!” The driver said it all.
His escort turned calmly to me. “We’ve ended up in the middle of a funeral, “there’s people taking cover everywhere.”
“I’ll reverse and turn down by the old people’s home.”
The driver changed his position in an effort to see through the two tiny slits that pushed their way through the steel plate to the outside world.
Moments later we were heading away from the reorganising funeral. Only to be stopped again, this time by an advancing ambulance, its sirens bouncing off the steel all around me.
Once again, the escort turned to me. “We’re going nowhere for a while. Someone’s been hit, we’ll get out and give some cover.”
I felt my throat dry a little as the heavy metal doors swung open, the driver and escort standing either side, weapons at the ready. I stepped out and took my first real view of ‘the area of operations’. A crowd had gathered and were watching me as I moved my weapon to the ready position. This could have been a street anywhere in England. It looked a lot like Stoke. The people looked familiar, as though I should know them. One man in particular caught my eye. He was wearing a blue parka, with grey fur around the hood. As our eyes met, I thought he was going to say something, but then he stopped, as though he thought better of it. I closed the back doors and realised the reason for our attendance. Further down the street I could see the Red and White hackles of the Fusiliers as they hurried back and forth into an old people’s home, carrying first aid kits and field dressings. Then, as though from a film set, two military police came out and took up fire positions, they were followed by several fusiliers and a ‘corridor’ of fire power formed, protecting the ambulance crew who were wheeling a stretcher carrying a badly injured corporal, the result of another, well aimed, sniper’s bullet.
When I finally arrived at Bessbrook Mill I was unceremoniously deposited and had to find my way to the MT office.
Bessbrook was a large site and had obviously been built as a factory. In the location were men from the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, The Scots Guards and 45 Commando. My orders were to join 45 and work with them as a driver. I met up with a corporal from 10 Regiment RCT, who would normally be stationed in Bielefeld, Germany. This fat, black haired Welshman was obviously pleased to see me, as my arrival signalled the end of his four month tour.
News of my arrival and my quick introduction to the streets had spread. A number of soldiers asked me about it as I collected my bedding from the stores. Having satisfied their curiosity, I was given a room number and made my way along a maze of buildings and corridors. Eventually, I arrived at my allocated room. It was a small room, cramped with four sets of grey, iron two-man, bunk beds. I looked around, only one was empty. I threw my bedding and kit down, and began the task of making my own little nest. As I made my bed I became aware of someone standing behind me, I turned around and met the deep dark eyes of a Guards officer. I couldn’t see his rank, I didn’t have to, I could tell a ‘Rupert’ (Commissioned Officer) from a mile away, although, I have to say this one seemed a bit different. I stood to attention immediately, wondering what the hell he wanted.
“Sir,” I said as he walked in.
“Oh, forget that here, I can’t be bothered with all that.”
I couldn’t put the months of Army training behind me that quick and still stood to attention as he sat on my bed. I looked down and could see that he was well built, fit, and had the look of a fighting man. His nose was a little flat and slightly twisted, broken high on the bridge, there was a light swelling around his eyes as though fat had covered old injuries, the shadow cast from his beret, which was shaped more like a squadies than an officers, accentuated the swelling.
“I’m very interested in the trouble you saw earlier today.” He said as he lay back. “Did you see the crowd at all?”
“Some of it, Sir.” I replied
“I wonder, did you recall seeing a man about my height and age, wearing a very distinct dark blue parka coat with grey fur around the hood?”
I thought for a moment before I answered. “Yes Sir, I think I did.”
“Think, or know?”
“Yes, I’m sure I did, a man in his mid twenties, he was standing near to the back of the Saracen as I got out.”
“What made you notice him?”
“I thought I knew him for a second, I got eye contact with him, he looked as though he was going to say something but then moved away.”
Before we could say anything else the doorway was filled with the figure of Sergeant Bob Ackerman and another man, both were wearing civvies (civilian clothes) and looked as though they hadn’t had a haircut or shave for some time.
“I might of bloody known,” he said as he recognised me, “Driver Griffiths.” he continued, “I see you’ve met Mr Nairac here.” He nodded to the officer. “This is Eddy McGee.” He introduced the slightly built man, who now sat with Nairac on the bed. “This gentleman, is Driver Ken Griffiths of 47 Air Despatch, we met in training.”
I was puzzled.
“Have you asked him about the contact?” McGee asked Nairac, through thin lips his and diluted Yorkshire accent.
“Yes, he says he’s seen someone fitting our man’s description.”
“Well, he’s no fool, ” Ackerman chipped in, “we can work on the basis that he’s seen what he says he’s seen.”
“Good!” Nairac said, as he stood to leave.
The three men moved out of the room. Ackerman told me to meet them in the ops’ room at 19.00 hours.
At the appointed time, I arrived at the OP’s room. It was a long, thin, room with an equally, long, thin, table. Cheap wooden seats were placed all around. Many of them taken up by uniformed figures. Cigarette smoke filled the air. Around the walls maps hung between black and white writing boards, all of which were soiled by the stains of a thousand former briefings. I sat down between Ackerman and Eddy McGee. A small squat guy, with very short light hair, wearing a dark blue tracksuit, sat next to Eddy, he looked vaguely familiar. Across from us sat a tall Royal Marine with jet black hair, huge shoulders and arms. He sat with his elbows on the table, his massive hands interwoven, a name tag neatly sown on his combat jacket introduced him simply as Lair, there was no rank, but he was obviously a Rupert. Other soldiers sat around but these four seemed to be the ‘Head Shed’ bods.
Ackerman opened the discussion and explained that he had been in a covert location with Eddy, when they heard shots from a sniper’s rifle. But, they were too far away to be of any use.
The squat guy next to Eddy leaned forward. “I was on the roadside when the shots were fired. I had a clear view until an armoured car hurtled around the corner.”
All eyes turned to me. “I wasn’t driving, ” I said in my defence. I looked at the ‘tracksuit’, and realised that he was the man in the blue parka.
He introduced himself, “Tony Ball” He said. He looked across at the Marine’s Rupert, “I’ll say this again John, there has to be a leak. Look at the statistics, we’ve had five shootings, and two explosions on the patch, each incident in or near a secure location.”
John Lair thought for a moment. “We have no real intelligence, we’re reliant on Robert’s contacts in the RUC.” He said thoughtfully.
Nairac responded, “There has to be a concerted effort to gather our own intelligence, as well as pick the brains of other professionals. It’s clear that there is a break down in information sharing.”
“ Two days ago,” Ball jumped in, “I saw three MI5 guys at a meeting aboard HMS Belfast, all they did was ‘slag off’ MI6, it’s ridiculous.” Tony Ball’s frustration was obvious.
McGee responded, “We need to develop our own undercover teams, we’ve done it in other theatres, we’re blind without good quality, first hand information.
The discussion was going over my head and I was beginning to wonder why I was party to it, when John Lair took the floor.
“ Ok, we’ll go down to the HQ briefing and put our cards on the table. We’ll need a driver and escort.”
“ Gavin, you’re the duty driver,” A voice from the far end of the room filtered down. I looked across and was surprised to see a Royal Corps of Transport, Captain. Cpt Fred Holder was a tall, slim man, although commissioned, his demeanour suggested that he was an enlisted man. “ I’ll come along and show you the route, 45 will provide the escort.
A short time later, the Head Shed, were on the move, this time they were all in full uniform and taking their proper parts in the Army I knew and understood. They climbed aboard my Pig (armoured car). Cpt Holder climbed in the passenger seat as two commandos positioned themselves either side of the closing back doors.
Holder said very little, other than to guide me along the unfamiliar route to Lisburn. Throughout the journey, there was a solemn silence, the passengers deep in thought, preparing themselves for the meeting to come.
The security at Lisburn was extremely tight. Once I’d dropped off my ‘cargo’, I was ushered to a parking area, which was full to bursting, with armoured vehicles from all over the province. It was clear that this was an important meeting. For four hours the HQ block stood in silence, the thick walls concealing any sign of the ‘high powered’ meeting going on inside. Escorts and drivers waited patiently, their whispered conversations adding to an already, eerie atmosphere.
The sound of a door opening hailed the end of the meeting, a steady stream of uniformed men appeared, as scores of engines came to life, exhaust fumes filled the cold night air.
Unlike the journey out, the Pig was full of excited conversation for the return journey, each man echoing and approving the HQ’s decision to form a specialist military force to work undercover in the province.
…