Sunday 29 August 2010

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.

Tuesday 24 August 2010

WAIT OUT part 12 Troops Deployed to Ireland

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.

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.