WAIT OUT Part 6 (Boy Soldiers)

Steen looked around making sure no one was watching, satisfied, he held the sheep firmly on the killing cradle, he took one more look around, reached for his boning knife and plunged it deep into the side of its neck, the sheep struggled, its eyes rolling as its life blood ran away.
“Did ya, stun that ewe before ya killed her?”
Jock was surprised by the Forman’s appearance. Looking him straight in the eye, he answered. “Yeah”.
“Ya lyin’ little bastard, you’ve no stunned it at all.” The foreman’s, thin tight face filled with sympathy as he looked down at the cradle. “I’ve been a butcher for many a year lad, and I canna say ‘ave seen anyone as cruel as you. It’s the last time I’ll warn ya, if you’re caught again, you’ll be off.” Walking away, he looked back. “For pities sake, have some thought for the wee beasts.”

Jock turned to his work, rolled the sheep over, and began the task of butchering the animal ready for the table.

The 15 August 1969, had been a long day, although tired, he read his newspaper as he began the long bus ride home. In the past year, he’d seen an increase in the activities across the water. Patrick O’Brien had said that the recently held civil rights marches had opened up old Catholic wounds and that armed conflict was merely a matter of time. Now, as he read the paper, it seemed as though the time had come:
DURING THE NIGHT, HUNDRED’S OF PROTESTANT YOUTHS RAMPAGED THROUGH THE STREETS OF BELFAST SETTING FIRE TO CATHOLIC PROPERTIES AND BEATING UP INNOCENT CATHOLICS AS THEY MADE THEIR WAY HOME. IN RETALIATION, CATHOLIC YOUTHS FOUGHT RUNNING BATTLES WITH THE PROTESTANT RUN RESERVE POLICE FORCE, KNOWN AS THE B SPECIALS. PETROL BOMBS WERE THROWN AS MOBS ROAMED THE STREETS. IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING HOMES WERE STILL BURNING, AS POLICE USED AUTOMATIC WEAPONS TO RESTORE ORDER. IRISH POLITICIANS ARE CALLING FOR THE DEPLOYMENT OF TROOPS….

Within minutes of arriving home there was a knock at the door. Patrick O’Brien’s grim face met Steen’s.
“Have you heard the news.?”
“I’ve read the papers.”
“So you’ve not heard then, troops have been sent in, it’s on the television news as we speak.” O’Brien led the way into the lounge. His mood changing as he realised Mrs Steen was there. “And how’s my Agnes?” he said, as she stood from her chair and turned to face him.
“Och I’m very well indeed. I wasn’t expecting you ‘til the week-end.”
“I was just passing and thought I’d call in to see Jock.”
“Are you still taking me to the pictures at the week-end?”
“Of course I am, I’d not let a fine lady down, now would I.”
“Jock’s meal is in the oven, I can make it spread if ya feel like stayin’ a while.”
“ No Agnes, thanks for the offer though.” He turned to Jock, “ There’s an open night and shooting competition at the local Territorial Army barracks tomorrow night, I thought you might like to come along and have a go.”
“Aye, I’d like that. Do I have to tak’ ma own gun?”
“No, they’re using .22 rifles.”
“Right enough, I’ll look forward ta that.”

The following morning at 7 a.m. Jock tied his apron, put on his gumboots and made his way to the slaughterhouse for another ‘sheep day’. All around him, the conversations were the same, Protestants and Catholics debating the issues facing Ulster. Minutes before lunch a small ewe struggled free from Jock’s grip, he wrestled it for a moment before slipping, ‘spread eagled’ across the floor. A roar of laughter, from his fellow work-mates, added to his humiliation, he smiled embarrassingly as a colleague handed him the ewe. Placing it on the cradle he looked around, his smile broadening the other slaughter men were still laughing, turning back to the ewe, Steen took hold of one of its front legs and with a swift movement broke it, the ewe screamed, the slaughterhouse fell silent. Steen looked up, “It wont fuckin’ run away now, will it.”
Horrified, several of the men went for him. He pulled his knife and waved it in the air challenging anyone who dared to approach. The ‘stand off’ was broken when the foreman told him to collect his things and leave. As he walked away, a man stepped forward and quickly killed the suffering animal.
By 6.30 p.m., there was no sign of remorse. In the Army barracks, Jock was handling the .22 rifle as though he’d been born with it. A Territorial Army Sergeant explained the working mechanism, inviting him to ‘dress forward' to the firing line. The indoor range was nothing more than a long stone corridor with a pulley system which sent ten-inch cardboard targets to a wall of sandbags some fifty yards away, a dim light hovered overhead. At the Sergeant’s instruction Jock lay down and took aim. Slowly he squeezed the trigger, a loud crack echoed off the walls, the target twitched as the round hit.
“Well you’ve hit the target at least.” The sergeant said.
“To far to the left.” Jock replied. He adjusted his aim, cocked the weapon, and fired again. “That’s better.” He followed the sequence again, accurately sending his third and final shot.
“OK, lay the weapon down keeping the mussel pointed down the range and step back.” Jock moved away, as the sergeant retrieved the target. “Well done lad,” he said “you’ve got two bulls and one just left of centre, great shooting. Have you shot before?”
“I’ve got an air rifle.”
“Is this the first time you’ve shot full bore then?.
“Yeah.”
“Well you should think about joining up lad, that’s a hell of a shot you’ve got.” Jock shrugged his shoulders as he moved away. The sergeant turned to the line of boys anyone want to try and beat that?”
“I can’t see anyone beating that score.” O’Brien said as he viewed the target. “Come on Jock, we’ll have a look at the displays and wait to see if you win.” The two walked away and crossed the barracks towards the display area. Steen was quieter than normal. “Something bothering you Jock?” O’Brien asked.
“I lost my job today.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“The foreman’s a cruel bastard, I caught him breaking the leg of a sheep, and tried to stop him, so he sacked me.” Steen lied.
“Did you report him?”
“No point, he’s the man in charge, besides, all his mates work there.”
“Have you told your Mum?”
“No, not yet.”
“Any idea what you’ll do now.”
“I’ll start looking for a new job tomorrow.”
“ What about the Army, you’ve proved your a good shot, that’ll go a long way in there.”
“ No, I’ve said before I won’t join the British Army and fight my own people.”
“ You won’t have to, you could be in there and be helping the struggle.”
“What a ya saying” Jock’s interest was aroused.
“ Remember the Baden Powell book, he spent a lot of his time gathering information which was used by the British Intelligence Service.”
“Spying ya mean?”
“In a word, yes. The more you know about the enemy the better the chances of defeating them.” O’Brien kept an eye open for anyone who might overhear the conversation.
“Are you sayin’ I could join the British Army and spy for the IRA.” Steen’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Well, not only that. You see Jock, most of the IRA are older men who haven’t seen a weapon for years, in fact most of them have forgotten where they hid their old weapons. Young recruits are enthusiastic but have no skills. But a British trained soldier could lick them into shape in no time.”
Jock was deep in thought when the TA sergeant arrived with a winners certificate. “There you are son, well done.” He handed the certificate over shaking Jock’s hand as he did.
“Is there a place in the Army for a lad like this then?” O’Brien enquired.
“With a shot like that he’s got the makings of a fine sniper.” The sergeant said as he walked away.
“See what I mean Jock, just think what a trained sniper could offer the IRA.”
“But what about ma Mum and ma brothers and sister?”
“It’d be a great honour for me to look after them, whilst you’re away helping the boys over the water, and as you know, I’ve been seeing a lot of your mother lately, a bit more wouldn’t go amiss.”
“If I did decide to do it how would I get in touch with the IRA?”
“That, my boy, is something with which I can assist.” O’Brien searched Steen’s face. “Seriously,” he continued, “if you want to go down this line then it has to be a very well kept secret, you mustn’t mention it to anyone,” O’Brien’s voice changed emphasising the importance of the conversation, “No one!” He said forcefully.