WAIT OUT part 17 UNDERCOVER SOLDIER

By the time I arrived at Ashford it was late in the evening, the utter exhaustion, I felt from my tour in the province, was now compounded by the long, lonely trip to Kent.
Throughout my journey, no military personal had spoken to me. As, per my instruction, I hadn’t told anyone of my reason for travelling, or my ultimate destination. In keeping with the ‘brief’, the Intelligence Corps’ Duty Driver, said not a single word, other than to ask me at the train station whether or not I was bound for the Int’ HQ and to check my MOD 90 identity card.
His Land Rover came to a halt outside the admin block. I carried my two bags inside and was met by a small, fresh faced, staff sergeant, who asked me for my ID. I handed my, the MOD 90, over, which showed my photograph, along side my number, rank, and name. The Staff sergeant said nothing as he moved his pen down a long list of names, printed neatly, on white paper. He stopped at mine, and handed me a sealed brown envelope. I opened it and found a set of cards, with the number 16 printed on them. The sizes started from a small, ‘breast pocket’ size, in a plastic cover, and were graded, up to a large A4, sealed in a plastic cover.
The Staff Sergeant, gave me a welcome smile, and said.
“Remember, you are not to tell anyone your identity. If you recognise anyone here, you must ignore them, as they will surely ignore you.” He hesitated, letting his words sink in. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Staff.” I said.
“I am the only person here, who knows your identity. I am the only person who you can approach and discuss any problems with. Do you understand, number sixteen?” He emphasised the ‘number sixteen’ bit.
“Yes Staff.” I said as I stood to attention.
“There is no need to follow military protocol on this course. Address all instructors as Staff, regardless of their rank.”
Coming straight from Northern Ireland I was used to a more relaxed approach, but this was something which I felt uneasy with.
‘Staff’, handed my ID card back to me, as I followed him through a series of indistinct buildings. In the dark shadows it was difficult to work out the proper layout. All around the perimeter, at very regular intervals, were tall, lamp posts each adorned with an amber light, which picked out the coils of razor wire, perched on top of a ten foot, chain-link fence. I noted that there was an unusual amount of manual security. In the short walk, I picked out several armed, two-man patrols, made up of army and MOD police.

Eventually, we arrived at the accommodation block, a small, square, two-story building. Its flat roof had several weird aerials, which appeared very prominent against the orange background glow.
Staff, led the way inside, a blast of warm air impregnated with a familiar smell of floor polish, greeted us. We climbed a flight of stairs, which led to the second floor corridor. The lighting was a little subdued, yet I could see that the place was immaculately clean and openly spacious, a direct conflict to the cramped conditions of Bessbrook. Staff, opened the second door on the right, a bright light spread across the corridor, picking out a series of four numbers, printed on separate pieces of card and positioned in a square, on the door opposite. I walked in, taking account of the numbers on the open door. Bottom left, was the number sixteen. The room was as spacious as the corridor suggested. Positioned neatly in each corner stood a modern, wooden, single bed, already made, with white sheets turned back over a bright green counterpane. Grey, card, folders were attached to the bottom of the beds, each bearing a number from fourteen to seventeen. Sixteen, was bottom left. To the side, a brightly coloured, Formica and wood, combined, wardrobe, dressing table, and book shelf covered the wall, ending as a window started. This was more like the Officers Mess, than an ‘ordinary’ soldiers abode.
“You must parade at 7.00 a.m. in the lecture room downstairs in your working kit.” Staff said as he looked around the empty room. “The rest of the guys are probably over the NAAFI, they arrived at lunch time. Any questions?”
“No Staff.” I said, coming slightly to attention, but stopping myself short of him having to remind me of the rules.
“OK. Remember, you are not to disclose your true identity to anyone, likewise, you are not expected to pry into the identities of anyone you meet on the course. Goodnight.”
He pulled the door shut behind him, as he left the room.
‘All very civilised’, I thought as I unpacked my bags. By the time I’d finished it was 11 p.m. I climbed between the cool, clean, starched, sheets. My body was buzzing from the trauma of the last three months, and the long day of travelling.
Wind and rain hit the large widows, but I was comfortable and soon began to drift into sleep. I left one bedside light on, to welcome my returning room mates.
And return they did, just before midnight. Although fast asleep, I heard the door open sharply, I woke. The light from the corridor, shone into the room, as bright as Blackpool illuminations. The three men were talking loudly, their footwear smacking and squealing as they turned from the polish of the corridor floor, to the thin carpet of the room. They all entered in a huddle, the smell of beer breath, came in with them. It was obvious they hadn’t seen me, one of them threw a wet, cold, coat at my bed, which half covered me. For a moment, I thought I was back in the, shit conditions of Fallingbostle. I sat up, a tall guy, with black hair, who I guessed was in his late twenties, looked down at me, his round small face was wet and reddened, from the wind and rain. He grabbed his coat.
“I’m terribly sorry.” This was the accent of an officer. There was no mistaking it. The room fell silent for second. “David, number seventeen,” He said by way of introduction, as his hand extended.
“Griff.” I hesitated for a second, sixteen I answered as I stopped myself from carrying on with the normal ‘Sir, routine. I shook his hand, it was bony, and cold.
“Griff?” A Scot’s accent is unmistakable. This one came from a fresh faced, small, and very fit looking, twenty-seven year old, with sandy hair, and freckles.
There was no handshake, he sat on bed number fourteen, smiled, and said, “Griff’s ma name as well.”
I nodded, and smiled back.
“We’ll have to do something about that, can’t have two with the same name, very confusing.” David said as he hung his coat on a wooden hanger.
“And I’m Frank, number, fifteen.” Frank’s hand extended as he crossed the room. He spoke very quietly, I guessed form his accent that he was from Devon or Cornwall. He was shorter than the rest of us, about five foot nine, or ten. He had a mass of curly, brown hair, which was showing signs of greying. His hands were, small and stubby. Nevertheless, he had a very powerful grip.
Within ten minutes, the four of us were lying in our beds deep in conversation, each trying hard not to pry into another’s proper identity, or past experience. During the conversations, it became obvious that we were a very ‘mixed bag’. We talked until the early hours, only stopping to listen to the occasional door opening and shutting, and murmured conversations which spilled out, from other rooms, as men made their way to the latrines, and back. None of us knew how many others there were, but we guessed that if all the rooms in the block were full then there would be twenty-eight.
By 6 a.m., the four of us were up and in the washroom, the place was full of men, all trying to get to a sink. Some had to wait, no one entered into any conversations. By five to seven, I stood with the others from my room, and counted the heads, in the lecture room. We had guessed right, twenty-eight were present, all standing in groups of four, each man wearing his working dress, with his ‘selection’ number attached to it. No one wore a beret, rank, or any insignia which would indicate their ‘parent’ unit.
At exactly 7 a.m. the door opened and in stepped, two members of Staff. Looking at them it was obvious that these were very fit men. Both were wearing their working dress, neither had any badge of rank, although I could tell from the way they approached us that they did have rank, probably sergeants, I thought. Both were similar in build, and bearing, both had dark brown hair, which needed cutting.
“OK. I am Tony, your senior instructor.” He had an unusual accent, which I couldn’t recognise. “We will be taking you over to the main lecture theatre in a moment. There you will be addressed by the CO.” He stopped and looked to his mate.
“Good morning gentlemen, I am Alan.” I couldn’t work out his accent either. “When you’ve heard from the CO, you may decide that this, the Military Reconnaissance Force, is not for you. So be it. There is no disgrace in being able to admit that, either now, or at some future time. What I will say, is that if you feel you are not suited to the type of work we do, but that you continue with the training, just in case, you change your mind, you will be found out. We will know whether or not you are suited, probably before you know. Once again, I emphasis, there is no disgrace in not meeting the required grade.” His words sank in very effectively.
His mate took up where he left off. “We do not expect you to move around in a military fashion during selection, or continuation training. We will not be ‘beasting’ you to get you to work. You will be responsible for your own discipline, and your own work rate. If you are not reaching the grade, you will be sent back to your units without hesitation.” He paused for a moment, and scanned us all individually. “Do you understand, gentlemen?”
None of us knew how to respond, did we come to attention and shout ‘Yes Staff’? Were we expected to keep it low key, ‘Yeah OK mate’? In the end there was some who nodded, some who murmured ‘yes’, and some like me, who, smiled, nodded, said ‘yes’ and half came to attention.
When I say some, I, actually mean, me, and a thin pasty faced guy, wearing number five, who was standing in his group on the other side of the room. It was obvious from our response, and our immaculately pressed uniform, that neither of us had been around the forces, for very long.
Following the short introduction we were taken along a series of tight concrete paths, which wound their way across neatly cut grassed areas, until we arrived at a large, square, red bricked, building. A simple sign read, ‘LECTURE THEATRE’. I was surprised to see several other people disappearing inside as we approached. I was even more surprised to see around, one hundred and fifty, similarly clad, men and women, already sitting in the lecture theatre. Apprehension showed in every-ones eyes.
I sat down. To my front, a light oak lectern stood in the centre of a slightly raised stage. Subdued lighting, threatened to blacken the back drop of purple velvet curtains. As if by magic, a tall, elegant, male figure floated from down stage left, and took up a position behind the lectern. He turned to face us, as a spot light hit him. He was easily in his fifties, with striking white hair. His uniform was immaculate, the rank of a full colonel adorned his shoulders.
He cleared his throat, as though to gain attention, which he’d gained anyway.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice was as clear as a bell, “welcome to the Military Reconnaissance Force, training centre. I do not intend to go into the reasons for our insistence that you do not question anyone here, about their true identity. If you cannot understand the reasoning for yourselves, then I would suggest that you are in the wrong place.” He looked around the audience gaining eye contact with everyone. “ Many of you will not complete the selection process. That is not necessarily a reflection of your ability to perform your duties in your own units. We are looking for a very specific type of person, who is mentally and physically fit, self motivated, able to operate alone, or in a team, and moreover, be able to act and function as a civilian on the outside, but retain a disciplined military person on the inside.” He stopped, placed his hands on either side of the lectern, stretched his neck forward, and continued, quietly. “There is none of the usual ‘beasting’ that you would normally associate with the military here.” His voice softened. “You are expected to motivate yourself, if you do not, you will be sent back to your unit. Following selection, for those of you who get through, there is a lot of continuation training, once again, if you do not come up to our specific standards, you will not be allowed to continue.” He stood back, his voice returning to its clear tone. “You are aware of the ‘Official Secrets Act’, so I should not have to remind you that you must not disclose anything you see, hear, or learn, to anyone.” He smiled for the first time. “Good luck”. With that he walked off stage as quietly as he came on. A murmur of low voices filled the air as the audience swapped thoughts. The noise died quickly, as the theatre door swung open, a man and woman appeared, dressed in ‘civvy’ track-suits. All eyes met them. The woman looked at her watch, and then, at the sea of faces.
“You have fifteen minutes to get changed into your PT kit and assemble on the tarmac, outside this theatre.” She said.
The two of them calmly walked outside, as the whole audience tried to exit en-masse. Moments later I was running across the cut grass towards the block. Frank was a step or two behind me. By the time we arrived in our room, Gavin was already throwing his work dress off. Within a minute or so the three of us were climbing into our shorts, in unison. Within five minutes we left the room, bumping into David, who had just arrived from the theatre. He, obviously had no sense of urgency.
“Hurry up mate.” I said
“Oh, don’t worry, there’s plenty of time, besides, there’s no way they would expect over a hundred people to change and report in that time.”
The rest of us were not convinced as we sped away. Outside the theatre the two instructors were waiting, around them, a group was growing by the second. I stood with my room mates, for the first time I felt the cold and decided to do some stretching and warm up exercises.
I watched the staff as they looked at their watches, simultaneously. For thirty seconds or more they watched. Then without saying a word they started to jog away, like sheep, we followed. I looked back over my shoulder as the main pack, headed for the gate, a line of people, who were late, were sprinting after us. Some were still leaving their blocks as we headed away from the camp. David was no- where to be seen. A mile into the run, the instructors, picked the pace up, I could hear people all around me, puffing and panting as the pace increased. Another four miles went by and the pace was lifted again, the two instructors, hardly breaking into a sweat, ran into a large athletics arena, and onto the running track. Lap after lap we trailed behind, these two, super-fit, instructors. Ten minutes after we arrived an Army Bedford turned up full of would be ‘operators’, who couldn’t, or wouldn’t keep up. As the laps increased, so too did the ‘drop outs’. I found the going a bit tough, but couldn’t get my head around the poor level of fitness and commitment shown by so many. Twenty fast laps later, those remaining, were randomly paired off. I ended up with number seventy-five, a small, slightly plump, girl in her early twenties, with shoulder length brown hair, which was neatly tied in a pony-tail. Her face was bright red, and blotchy, a mixture of the hard run and the cold air, making their mark. We lined up, and were told to carry our partners and run one full lap, changing around for another. I was eleven stone, my partner around nine.
I looked her up and down, she did the same with me. Realising that her task was greater than mine, I made a quick suggestion, “ I’ll carry first, if you like I said.” She nodded, hardly able to speak, as she fought for breath, I threw her, ‘fireman’ style over my shoulder and set off. It was a real bastard, I was knackered, even before we started, now, as I approached the finish, I was absolutely fucked. I virtually stumbled across the line, and rolled my partner from my shoulders to the ground. Although she’d had a brief rest, I felt sure she wouldn’t be able to complete the task. I climbed on board and off she went. For the first ten metres or so, she struggled to maintain her balance and get me in as comfortable a position as possible, after that, it was sheer guts and determination. She took short, quick, steps and little by little she ferried me around, past several pairs, who had not managed the task, and were walking towards the waiting transport. Once over the finish, line, the carriers were told to jog on the spot, whilst those who had been carried had to run as fast as they could to the centre of the arena and back. This exercise, gave the carriers a bit of a rest, but still kept them active, and made those, who had rested in the carry, back up to speed. I ran as fast as I could, to the centre and back. My heart was pounding, my lungs aching, I was ready for a rest, but there was none. As soon as we all returned, the instructors jogged away, with us taking up the sheep mode once again. As we headed back to camp, one or two of the runners around me gave up and sat on the side of the road, waiting for the transport. Luckily, I was still in striking distance of the instructors, as we turned into the camp gates. The four tonner had caught us up, I looked inside as it passed by, I was amazed to see that it was absolutely packed. I noted that one or two of the ‘rejected’, were crying. They all looked thoroughly pissed off.
Back at the theatre, we halted, the instructors, who, thank fuck, were now sweating and looking as if they’d been for a run too, told us to get showered and changed into working dress and report back at the lecture theatre after lunch.
Back in the room, David’s bed had been stripped.
“He must ‘ave been RTU’d.” Jock Griff said, what we all thought.
“I don’t know about you,” Frank’s voice was slightly hoarse, “but, for a moment or two, I thought I might have been joining ‘im.”
“Who the fuck were the two instructors?” I asked. “They hardly had a sweat on.” I said without waiting for an answer.
“Dunno,” Frank replied, “one thing’s for sure, they don’t mess about ‘ere. If you can’t keep up your gone.”
“That’s for sure,” Jock Griff pointed out of the window as he spoke, “you seen that lot?”
We looked outside, and saw a long line of men and women, being handed their movement details and travel warrants by the Chief Clerk. By the time the three of us walked from the cook-house to the lecture theatre, two, twenty seat, army busses, filled to capacity, drove through the gates on their was to the train station. On the back seat of the last one, I saw David looking very gloomy.
The lecture theatre quickly filled with weary, aching bodies. I sat with Frank and Jock Griff, none of us spoke. It was very restful, as we waited for the lecture to start. The warmth, and quiet, made me feel very sleepy and I had to fight hard to stay awake.
Once again our Colonel appeared, wearing casual clothes, and took up position behind the lectern, which now stood down-stage left. Centre stage, a huge screen dropped in, suspended from ‘fly-wires’. The Colonel held a slide projector switch, in his left hand, and picked up a long wooden pointer with his right. The light’s dimmed, he pressed the switch, ordering the first of many slides. This one was simple, it was pale yellow, with ‘NORTHERN IRELAND’ spelt out in red, block, capitals.
For the next two hours he, gave us a ‘potted history’. Like most members on the course, I had no idea of the background to the ‘troubles’, and thought that it was a present day, political/religious problem. So, to be told that it all started in 1166, with a feud between the deposed King of Leinster, Diarmait MacMurrough and, High King Ruairi O’Conor of Connacht along with his mate, O’Rourke of Breiffne, and that this dispute, was eventually resolved, when MacMurrough, invited a group of English Norman Lords, to help him oppose his enemies, in return for a bit of a ‘jolly’, and a slice of the Country’s wealth, and that from that day on we have been in conflict; came as a bit of an eye opener.
As the lecture progressed, so too did my understanding. By the time I left the theatre, I had been introduced to all the active terrorist and political organisations in the arena. Some, such as the Fianna Scouts, the youth organisation of the IRA, and Cum-na-Bahn, the women’s IRA, I’d never heard of, which, given that I’d just toured in a strong Catholic area, made me realise that proper intelligence was sadly lacking for the every-day soldier on the streets.
As we left the theatre, we were told to parade at 1900 hours at the unit’s armoury. There was just enough time to get a meal and freshen up. Given the events earlier in the day, everyone arrived in plenty of time. Six members of the training team turned up, four of them were women. Very quickly, we were divided into six smaller groups. Groups one and two were issued with 9mm Browning Automatic Pistols, groups three and four with the standard issue SLRs, and groups five and six with the Armalite AR-18s. Each group was led away by an instructor, to a room in the Skill at Arms Wing. I was with group two. The instructor was a lovely looking blonde, who had the look of Debbie Harry, I couldn’t help wondering what the hell she was doing in this game.
I was used to the Browning, but said nothing when she asked who had used one before. I was glad I’d kept my mouth shut, as moments later she was handling the weapon with a professionalism that I’d not seen before. Not only that, but she went through the IA, (Immediate Action) drill, with such speed, that it looked more like a magician’s, hand-trick, than the act of clearing a jammed weapon. Following her brilliant introduction to the weapon, and its capabilities, she watched, and helped those of the group who had not worked with the ‘9 milly’ before. Time after time, she made us practice the loading, unloading, stripping, cleaning and IA’s, until our hands were sore and tired. Through the evening we worked, changing, weapons with the other groups, and going through the same intense routines. I was impressed with our ‘Debbie’. No matter what weapon she handled, she did so with incredible ease and professionalism.
At 10.00 p.m., tired and exhausted I made my way to my room. Jock Griff and Frank were already there.
“Did you ‘ave that cracking blonde?” Frank asked.
“Have her!, I fucking wish,” I said, “if you mean did she take me for weapon training, yeah.” I continued.
“I had one of the women as well,” Frank said, “she was awesome, what she didn’t know about weapons weren’t worth knowin’.”
“Wha’ I doona, understand, is that women aren’t allowed ta carry weapons in the British Forces.” Griff was right.
“Well, it’s certain that these have.” I said as I undressed.
For a short while, we talked over the day’s events, but none of us could keep our eyes open. The room fell quiet, each of us aware that we had to parade at 6.00 a.m. I ran through the day in my mind, trying to gauge how I had done. Before I could give myself a ‘pat on the back’, I fell into a deep sleep.
In what seemed like seconds the room light went on, the voice of one of the instructors, Tony, filtered into my head. ‘Shit,’ I thought, ‘we’re late’. Angry at my-self, I flirted out of bed like one of those ‘jack in a box’ toys, grabbing my wash kit, before my feet hit the floor.
“You’ve got no time for that.” Tony said “get your kit on and go straight to the main lecture theatre”.
I looked across at Frank and Griff, they, like me believed we’d overslept. Frank glanced at his alarm clock. “Christ, it’s only one o’clock!” He shouted. “What’s all this about, Staff?” He asked the question we all wanted answering.
“Never mind what it’s about, get over to the theatre, before two fifteen, or, if you like, climb back into your pit, and we’ll see you on the bus, in the morning.” Tony smiled, “Your choice.” He said quietly.
By 1.15 a.m., the three of us sat in the same seats we’d been in only hours before. Once again, the large screen hung in the centre of the stage. All around us trainees, sat, looking and feeling like shit. The theatre doors were closed by a small male instructor, as he left the theatre. Everyone knew that anyone outside wouldn’t be continuing with the selection. I glanced around as the lights dimmed, there was a lot of empty seats. The theatre went into complete darkness, no-one said a word. The sound of a projector pre-warned us that a film was about to start. For the next forty-five minutes we watched an old black and white film of Sir Edmund Hillary, climbing Everest.
I wasn’t sure what was expected of me, then Frank leaned across. “I bet they’re going to ask us questions about this.”
I nodded, and realised that he was probably right. I sat up and took notice. The film ended, the doors opened and our instructors entered. We were told not to talk, and escorted back to our individual block lecture rooms. Ours had been transformed from the empty room we’d stood in yesterday. Now it was lined with single, desks, positioned in exam formation, each had a number attached. I sat at sixteen. In front of me a sheet of paper, lay face down, a pencil accompanied it.
“You have twenty minutes to complete all the questions on the paper,” Alan said. He looked at his watch and waited for the second hand to find twelve. “Ok.”
With that everyone turned their paper over, with the exception of me. I watched them, and smiled to my-self as I recalled the day I’d run away from the welding exam. I glanced at my watch, it was 02.15. I turned my paper over, questions were set from top to bottom, I read the first, ‘WHAT SEX WAS THE INSTRUCTOR THAT CLOSED THE THEATRE DOORS AT THE START OF THE FILM’. ‘Crafty bastards,’ I thought as I wrote my answer. The rest of the questions were about the film, I was pleased that Frank had guessed right, and that I’d taken notice.
By 03.00 a.m. I was back in bed. Although I was absolutely tired out I couldn’t get to sleep, my mind was working overtime, involuntarily going through the film, and coming up with answers to questions that the paper didn’t ask. I was annoyed with my-self for not being able to clear my thoughts, but the more I tried to stop it the worse it got. Eventually, I drifted off, waking, as Frank’s alarm struck up. Once again the three of us, leapt out of bed, went to the wash-room and put our PT kit on.
By 07.05 a.m. we were running alongside our instructors, heading for the gates. This time though, we didn’t run as far, and headed back to camp within the hour. We were all pleased about this, as none of us were up to a heavy session. Back at the camp, we were taken into the Gym. Uniformed PTI’s stood by pieces of equipment. Each held a clip board. The minute we arrived they started, randomly dividing us into smaller groups. Each group stood next to a piece of equipment. Once sorted, a whistle sounded and off we went. PTI’s in any situation act the same, they shout and bully everyone. When the Colonel said that there would be no beasting, he obviously forgot about the PTI’s. They went at us ‘hell for leather’, ‘encouraging’ us to do one more sit up, another pull up, a quicker shuttle run. One exercise finished, we’d run to the next, then the next, then the next, and so on. Time after time we’d be back at the start, hoping that this time would be the last but it wasn’t, they kept us hard at it for over an hour. My head, felt as though it would explode, my heart was pumping so much I thought it would burst, and my muscles ached so much that I was having problems keeping them working. As I pushed my-self to my limits, I was aware that many around me were falling by the ‘way-side’. The Gym door opened and closed many times as those who hadn’t made the grade, were escorted out.
‘Stop!’ The sergeant’s voice echoed around the Gym. ‘Stand still, do not slouch, stand exactly where you are.’ No one needed to be told twice. We all stood, exhausted, panting and swaying as we tried to control our breathing and failing muscles. ‘Ok, outside, go!’.
Heavy, cold, rain met us as we emerged from the Gym. Steam was whisked away from our bodies by a strong wind. Several instructors were waiting for us. Once again we were put into groups and taken away to the edges of the camp. For the rest of the day we worked in teams, carrying out unusual physical and mental tasks.
For the rest of the week the punishment and testing continued. By Monday of week two, less than half of the original recruits were left.
The physical side of the selection was unrelenting. Everyone was carrying several injuries, and a host of blisters on feet and other prominent parts of our bodies. I’d managed to knock my big toe nail with enough force to lift it off its bed. I strapped it with heavy duty sticky plaster to stop it from coming off completely. The pain of it was so great that it nearly made me physically sick every time I ran or jumped with it.
Continuing with our skill at arms. A new weapon was introduced to us, the Remington pump action 12 bore. At first I couldn’t think why we would need to carry such a ‘tame’ weapon as this, alongside the awesome firepower of our service weaponry. I soon realised its potential. Loaded with a single piece of lead, this weapon could take a door down or stop a moving vehicle with such effect that it would have pleased a tank commander. Once again, the professionalism of the instructors shone through as we watched them using the Remington on the ranges.

We left the ranges late in the afternoon and were told to grab a bite to eat and parade outside the main lecture theatre. By the time I arrived most of the recruits were already lined up. A member of the PTI staff I’d not seen before arrived moments later. He was tiny I didn’t think anyone could be that small and get in to the army but he certainly had. “Listen in” he shouted, a distinct Irish accent accompanied the words as he read from a sheet of paper. “I’ll call your numbers in groups of four. Once you’re numbers are called make contact with your group and take a seat in the lecture theatre. “Group one, twelve, fifteen’ forty four, Group two, Twenty one, thirty, eight, nine.” I was the last number called and moved into the theatre one step in front of titch. I took the nearest available seat next to the door. To my right sat my group. I looked along the line. Seventeen was a young fresh faced soldier who I guessed hadn’t been around very much. Next to him sat five, an attractive dark eyed girl in her early twenties, with shinny shoulder length dark brown hair tied tightly into a pony tail. She’d taken her combat jacket off and was displaying a lovely pair of tits. Next to her ten sat cross legged. She was no where near as attractive as five. Also in her early twenties she was very tall, very thin with a really sharp face. Her hair was brown with tight curls. She was covered in freckles, even her hands were covered. There were no tits. She had a wedding ring on though, so I guessed that someone other than her mother loved her. Set out on the stage in front of us was a line of 1:25,000 ordnance survey maps. Each had a Silva orienteering compass, note paper and pencil neatly positioned on top. During basic training I’d learnt how to carry out simple map and compass work but it wasn’t one of my strong points. In fact I was bloody useless at it!
“I want one member of each group to dress forward, collect a map reading kit and return to your seats.” Up until now I’d been very impressed with the organisation of selection everything carried out in a proper manner. This was bloody chaos. The nominees trying to get to the stage. Some climb over the seats and squaddies in front of them, others came from the middle of the rows treading on feet and ankles as they made there way to the aisles leading to the front. Needless to say there was a lot of swearing, jeering and generally pissed off people. “Quite” titch had a fucking big voice. He certainly made his point. The whole room fell silent. “Now carry this out without comment.”
Finally everyone got back to their positions. As I was the last person in my row I waited until the melee stopped and picked up the one remaining set.
“The object of this exercise is quite simply to navigate around a given route and to write down what you find at each of the places indicated by the map references. You’ve got two hours and your time starts now.”
Everyone in the room sat silent and puzzled for a second or too. A couple of eager beavers made tried to make a move but decided not to tread on the forty or so of us that hadn’t stirred.
“Er I say staff,” a Rupert spoke up from somewhere behind me, “we don’t seem to have been given the map references.”
“Perhaps you should look before commenting.” Titch smirked.
At that the room erupted into activity, maps note paper was scanned, maps unfolded. Eventually a series of six figure map references were located, written so small that they were barely visible in the lecture theatre’s low light. Almost simultaneously the torches were switched on.
“Right I’ve got them.” I said. “C’mon let’s go.”
“No wait, ten’s voice was as thin as her stature, “Write the references out larger so we can see them easier.”
Clever stuff I thought as I did what she’d suggested. Trying to write with fifty hairy arsed squaddies fighting to exit through a tiny door is not recommended. The four of us moved onto the stage letting the flood past as I finished writing. I was about to join the back end of the exodus when ten spoke again.
“Let’s take the time to find the first location before we go out into the dark.”
Sensible stuff this. I turned the map over. It quickly became apparent that the map was not a representation of the camp area. After a bit of a ponder ten was there again.
“There’s the corner of the camp boundary.” She pointed to a spec of a line just protruding into the map and she was dead right. She’d proved a point. I handed the map to her
“This isn’t one of my strong points.” I said.
“It is one of mine.” She smiled.
“It’s not one of mine either,” seventeen confirmed that he was even greener that I’d thought.
The girls moved close together edging the two of us away from the map. Their heads went down, seconds later they were sorted.
“Ok, let’s go.” Ten led the way. I could see how she got herself married.
Outside teams were running off in all directions. Some went as far as the nearest amber light and quickly returned to the theatre. We started to jog following behind ten. Out of the main gate we turned right. I was a little concerned as it seemed everyone else was turning left.
“ Don’t worry, we’ve got it right.” Five said as she grabbed a hold of my arm and turned me away from the lefties.
The four of us jogged along the edge of the road leading away from the camp. It was pitch black on the road, quite often we’d lose the safe tarmac surface and stumble on the grass verge. Eventually we arrived at a cross roads surrounded by several dwellings.
“We’re looking for a feature, probably a telephone kiosk” ten said.
“Why a kiosk?” I asked.
“Other than the buildings it’s the only prominent feature shown on the map.”
Fare enough I thought. Then I realised I liked ten.
“Over here.” Five pointed to a short walkway leading only to the kiosk. We all went down.
The dim light barely illuminated the inside of the kiosk. Other than the actual telephone there was only a copy of the local directory. ‘Must be a posh area this,’ I thought, back in Stoke someone would have used it for the fire. On the window there was a sticker advertising a local taxi firm. Next to it someone had scratched a number into the glass. Both of these were noted down just in case. Torch on, the two women sorted out the next location and off we went again. This carried on well into the early hours of the morning. Ten locations were visited and notes made. There was about a mile between each location so I reckoned with the initial run out and the return we’d covered around twelve miles. I was knackered and looking at my colleagues they felt the same. At around 2am we arrived back in the camp. Throughout the exercise we’d seen and heard military transport. Now back in the confines of the perimeter fence the transport was unloading the failures, those who’s fitness or map reading just wasn’t up to the task. Back in the lecture theatre the full extent of the fail rate was apparent. At least twenty were missing when the doors were closed by Titch. On the stage a group of instructors stood in a semi circle Titch stood in front of them and addressed the audience.
“I’m going to read the first three numbers of the last map reference you were given. You should make your way in your groups to the instructor I nominate. The instructors will mark your findings.”
Group by group we moved onto the stage and found our instructors. Looking at the way everyone was moving we weren’t the only ones feeling knackered. What was surprising was the fact that most of the instructors on the stage had been training us all day and now stood around looking as fresh as daisies. At the end of the allocation I stood with the rest of my group. We were the only ones standing without an instructor.
“You’re with me,” Titch said, he pointed to the side of the stage. We followed him to his chosen area. “Let’s have a look.” Ten handed him the notes. He checked them carefully against his list. “Well done, you’ve got them all right and some more as well. That’s good.” The girls had pulled it off. I was sure that I would have failed had I have been the reader. Titch walked back to centre stage. “For those of you who have struggled with this exercise I suggest you take the time to refresh your skills. You were all taught this subject in basic training and so there should be no excuse for not being able to map read. Their will be more to come. In the next week and I can tell you that anyone not being able to map read under pressure will not be going on to continue the training. This is week two of a two week assessment. Even if you have passed all the tests we may RTU you because the training team has concerns about your commitment, behaviour or ability to continue.”
I hadn’t realised the significance of these first two weeks.
“Off you go, parade outside the gym in PT kit at zero seven hundred hours.”
On the way out of the lecture theatre I grabbed hold of ten’s arm.
“Any chance you could give me a hand with the map reading.”
“Yeh ‘course I can. We’ll start tomorrow. I’ll meet you in the NAFFI when we break.”
By the time I climbed under the bed covers it was 3.15 am. I was drained. My toe was wrecking, throbbing and very sore. It didn’t keep me awake for a second. There’s something euphoric about falling into a deep sleep when you really do need it. There’s something bloody sadistic about the army’s need to shatter it when ever possible.
“Get, up, get your kit on we’re under attack.” The instructor’s voice bounced off the walls. Huge explosions were going off all around the block sending flashes of bright light through the windows into the block. Every soldier knows the sound, sight, and smell of thunder flashes. Every instructor has woken up his trainees with them. These instructors were not the exception. I looked at my watch it was 4am. “Get out side, quick, get out now.”
Within minutes we were running behind the training staff towards the camp gates. We were off on yet another run this time a three mile run, and I mean run. When we got back I didn’t bother getting undressed and crashed onto my bed. I was aware that my toe was bleeding heavily but couldn’t be bothered with it.
Day two of the second week started with a wash and shave at 6am. By seven I was lined up outside the gym with what looked like a parade of zombies. It was threatening to rain and very cold a strong wind made it feel icy cold. No one said a word. We filed into the gym. I was limping my toe was killing me now. I wasn’t alone, most of us were limping. Many had heavy bandages supporting their knees and ankles. At least I hadn’t got ligament damage and sprains to contend with. I felt sorry for those who did have. This routine could only make matters worse.

The gym had been set out for circuit training more or less the same as it had been last week. Medicine balls were the only addition. These we had to pass to our partner whilst standing back to back. Passing it at waist height first to the left then to the right as many times as possible in two minutes. Sounds easy but it isn’t, not after spending two minutes on all the other apparatus and having only managed one and a half hours sleep. The circuit training carried on for about an hour. Followed by yet another run. This time only s short distance to a muddy stretch of water adjacent to the assault course. On the banks there were huge lorry tyres. We were divided into threes and told to stand next to a tyre. The staff explained the task. It was simple get the tyre to the other side and back again as quick as possible. I looked at my team mates. They were remarkably similar, they could have been brothers. They may have been. They were around my height and build with round squashy features, piggy ears and striking blonde hair. Numbers 49 and 50. Fifty had heavy strapping on both knees and thighs. Forty nine had a badly scrapped shin. Between the three of us we looked as though we should be reporting sick, certainly not about to transport a lorry tyre across a muddy shit hole.
“Go.” There was no mistaking Titch’s voice.
We didn’t even have chance to speak to one another. In unison the three of us bent down, slid our hands under the tyre rim and lifted.
“Fucking role on,” forty nine was definitely northern English, “this bastard weighs a fucking ton.”
He’d summed it up perfectly. It was a bastard and it weighed a ton. The bastard levelled out and we ran as best we could to the edge of the watery bog. By now it was absolutely throwing it down. The rain was running off our heads like waterfalls we could hardly keep our eyes open against the flood. We entered the bog and sank up to our waist. The huge tyre threatened to pull us under the mud. We fought as a team. Our hearts pounded, lungs ached and throats red raw, the effect of gulping air in at a fast rate. As we dragged ourselves forward the mud changed from fine silt covered with algae to a black, bluish, brownish thick slime full of leaching chemicals and iron oxides. We were churning it up from the bowels of the pond and it stank of rotting vegetation. Inch by inch we hauled the tyre through the mud. Eventually we got to the water channel. This made the job a little easier although it was much deeper and we were half swimming half walking under the water, pushing and pulling for all we were worth. Reaching the far bank we looked back across to the waiting instructors. The effort we’d given thus far, they could have been across the channel and we’d have felt less shattered. The three of us looked at each other and without saying word we were off across the shit hole once again. We’d only moved a couple of feet when I was aware that I’d become entangled with something well below the muddy surface. My right leg was wrapped up with something that felt like wire. I tried to get rid of it by jerking my leg violently but this just made matters worse. The other two were unaware of my problem and carried on tugging at the tyre. My hands were lodged in the cavity where the inner-tube usually sat. I couldn’t move them out quick enough and before I knew it I was being stretched between the lads effort to reach the end and what ever was trapping my leg. The strain forced me under the mud. My mouth, nose and ears filled with the slimy gunge. I couldn’t breath, Although I’d instinctively closed my eyes they too were filling with shit. It was obvious that my team mates hadn’t yet realised as I could feel them tugging at the tyre. They must have made one almighty effort as I was nearly wrenched from my leg by the power. Instead I felt a very sharp ripping pain down my shin. Then everything stopped and I started to sink. The boys, realising there was a problem had let go of the tyre and were working hard to push their legs through the heavy mud in an effort to reach me. The tyre, being full of the crap was dropping quickly ably helped by my body in it’s effort to rest at the same deep level as my feet. I was totally helpless I tried to struggle free but with out oxygen I couldn’t get my muscles to work. The thought crossed my mind that this could be the end of my selection either because I was going to die of asphyxia where I lay or my leg was so badly damaged that I wouldn’t be fit enough to continue. I could hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing for what seemed a life time then I felt a hand grab my right wrist and free it from the tyre, then my left. At the same time I could feel two more sets of hands trying to grab my arms and another set pulling my left leg. With the effort I popped out of the shit like a cork from a champagne bottle. I used the air trapped in my lungs to force most of the shit out of my mouth.
“Let go of my leg,” I screamed, “ I’m caught up.” The hands pulling my left leg belonged to one of the women recruits who had seen what was going on and come over with her team to help out. 49 and 50 had supplied the other hands and were now holding my head and shoulders out of the mud. Another guy was trying to get the shit out of my nose and ears. My eyes stung like hell there was no chance of my getting them open. The girl at the leg end started to pull again.
“No don’t,” I was calmer now, “My right leg’s caught up in wire or something.” I could feel her hands searching my leg. As soon as she touched my shin it began to sting.
“It’s barbed wire,” she said. “It’s wrapped around really tightly. I can’t get it free.”
With that announcement several other recruits who had finished there task jumped back in and came to my aid. Between them they managed to get me free although the barbed wire was still attached to my leg they had traced it back to the reason I couldn’t shift it. It was still attached to a piece of fence post deep in the bed of the pond. Once they freed that I could be taken out of the pond. On the bank side two of the instructors took over. Aware of the danger of exposure, the rest of the numbers were doubled away to get showered and changed. Whenever we were involved in exercises there was always a vehicle nearby. On this occasion it was a long wheel based Landover. It had already been summoned and I was placed on the open tail board by the staff. They wrapped me in the vehicle’s camouflaged hessian to keep me from losing any more body heat and began to assess the damage. I looked at my leg. My blood was well mixed with the slime. The barbed wire was tightly wrapped around my lower leg. Using fresh water from the vehicle’s water carrier the instructors washed away the mud revealing a skinned shin. Luckily the barbs on the wire had all but rotted away, only two had penetrated into my muscle at the back of my leg. The main damage had been done by a shaving action as the wire tightened and was then scraped down my shin bone by the forceful effort of my team mates. There was a lot of blood. More now that the wound had been cleaned. The instructors worked carefully to un-wrap the wire. When they got to my foot they were met with a long thin strip of my flesh, the strip that used to belong to my shin. It was paper thin and came away as they lifted the last piece of wire away. Although I’d suspected the worse the actual damage wasn’t that bad. It looked much worse than it was. This was confirmed later by the unit medical officer who having practiced his javelin technique on my arse with a hypo full of tetanus serum covered the wound with a light dressing and sent me on my way, telling me not to get it wet. By the time I got to the shower the mud had dried on me. I looked a bit like a pig that’d had lots of fun wallowing on a sunny day. How I was supposed to get clean yet keep my injury dry was beyond me so I tied a plastic carrier bag around it and stepped into the shower. The bag lasted all of ten seconds. It filled with water. The stinging sensation was only just bearable.

Showered, dressed in civvies and feeling relatively ok I hobbled over to join the rest of the recruits in the main administration block. They were sitting in what could be best described as a small school hall. Even the seats looked as though they’d come from a junior school dinning room. Red plastic seats and back rests, brown tubular steel frame. Horrible.
“What’s happening.” I asked.
“Dunno, we were told to sit here until our number was called.”
“Anybody been called?”
“Yeh a couple, then they were taken into the room over there.” He pointed to a door that was every bit as daunting as my old headmaster’s. It was the same style and colour too.
By the time my number was called I had been sitting so long that the whole of my body had begun to seize up. I was so stiff that getting off the chair took enormous effort. The room was nothing like my headmaster’s study. His was full of memorabilia and book shelves, a carpet. This room was empty other than a sad looking oblong wooden table. Behind it sat two men, probably in their fifties, certainly late forties. Both were smartly dressed but didn’t have that military bearing and neatness of dress. These looked like boffins. On the corner of the table there was a pile of brown files. In the corner of each there was a white patch about two inch square with a number boldly marked in broad, black ink. In front and in between them there was a single file marked 44.
“Good afternoon forty four, sit down.” The instruction came from the guy sitting to my left. He was without doubt a Rupert, public school accent, superior body language, the full bollacks. “I’m colonel Falkner, and this is Major Hughes.” He nodded towards his colleague. We’re from the medical corp, we’re psychologists.” I obviously looked surprised. “Don’t worry,” he read my body language perfectly, “this is a normal part of the selection process and everyone joining the unit has to be assessed for their mental suitability. If you get through selection you will be expected to undertake hazardous and dangerous duties in a very hostile environment.”

The lectures increased in frequency and depth. All the time now, we were reminded of the fact that we were targets for the terrorists and that at all times we should be conscious of their need to capture one of us for questioning. To drive this point home we were given an in depth account of the discovery and deaths of several of the units operators who were working in the province undercover, operating a laundry business, which, throughout its short time managed to get in depth information about the terrorists and their activities. The brutal murders of these operators underlined the dangers that we were going to be exposed to and left us in no doubt that if we got through selection, our training would be just as hard and demanding.
Before the horror of the ‘laundry’ incident had had time to settle out of harms way in the depth our brains, we were ushered from the main lecture theatre into a single story building with a long central corridor. Doors stood at regular intervals on either side and reminded me of a rank of guardsmen, all looking exactly the same and regimental. As we entered the corridor a bell rang and from the doors came a selection of white coats, each carrying a sheet of paper. They began to shout out our numbers. As they did, you had to listen hard to distinguish who was shouting your number, as the row echoing around the walls distorted the speech. Eventually, I made my way to a very tall, thin man. He had a face which I can only describe as white and spiteful. Without looking up, he turned from the corridor and entered the room as I approached. I followed him in, and shut the door. I looked around, the walls were bare, a small desk had been pushed against the wall, indentations in the carpet, and a square, less faded than the rest, told me that the room had been recently altered. In the centre stood two simple office chairs. Leaning against the leg of one was a black, leather briefcase, which, judging by the scuffs and worn edges, had seen a lot of service. On the flap, just above the lock were the letters ‘ER’ stamped in gold.

Those of us who managed to get through were put onto the units coaches and transported to Hereford’s Sterling Lines, for the next stage of the selection.

WAIT OUT Part 16

“I note, that during your imprisonment, you have made a request to be considered for the Special Air Service, or for Hazardous Duties in Northern Ireland.” Colonel Reilly looked up at Fusilier Steen.
Steen stood rigid to attention, his belt and beret replaced, for the first time in thirty days. “I ‘ave Sir.”
“Well,” the Colonel continued, “I have to say, that at this time, I am not prepared to endorse your application.”
Steen felt his temper rising, but knew that he was in a ‘no win’ situation. “Right Sir.” He suppressed his desire to ‘go’ for the Colonel.
“I have my doubts about your ability to function in stressful situations without close supervision.” The Colonel picked up a report from the Regiment’s prison wing. “My concerns are upheld by the prison staff, who, likewise, have concerns about your ability to make rational decisions, when under stress.”
Steen felt his stomach churn as he held himself together. “I understand that Sir,” he disguised his hatred well, “but,” he continued, “I would like the opportunity to prove that I can work under stress.”
The Colonel, took the plea on board, but, nevertheless, kept to his agenda. “I hear what you are saying, Fusilier Steen. I have to think of the wider picture, and I have to say, once again, that I am not prepared to endorse your application at this time. Should your present attitude and short temper subside, then I may re-think my position. It’s up to you to prove me wrong, and, if you do so, I will be pleased to endorse your application for selection to either the SAS, or for hazardous duties in Northern Ireland.” The Colonel looked up. “Dismissed.” He said as he looked back at the negative reports laid out before him.
Jock Steen, saluted, turned about, and marched out of the CO’s Office, with the Regimental Sergeant Major close behind. On the outside, he half turned and stuck two fingers in the direction of the CO, making sure he was out of sight of the RSM.
He walked slowly back to join the sniper section, who were preparing for continuation training on the ranges surrounding Catterick Garrison. His thoughts deepened, as he realised that he had to tell his friend and mentor that he had failed at the first hurdle to being accepted for service with Britain’s elite special forces.
The ‘range day’ went quickly. Steen made his way to the public telephone kiosk, near to the Guard Room. At exactly 7.00 p.m., he dialled the number to Patrick O’Brien’s home.
“Jock,” O’Brien was anxious and quick to answer.
“Aye it’s me.”
“Where, in God’s name have you been?”
“Locked up.”
“Ah, my boy, ‘ave you no thought for us out here who have a concern for you?”
“Och aye, but ‘ave noo way of tellin’ ya aboot ma problems ‘ere.”
“You could have written!”
“Och, I was only allowed one letter a week, an’ that was tae ma Maam.”
“Well you could of told her, she’d have told me.”
“Ave no wish tae worry ma Maam.”
O’Brien realised the position Jock had been in and changed the tone of the conversation.
“Well, tell me what’s gone on.”
Steen explained the reason for his incarceration, but lied, about his temper and actions, saying, that he had been the one who had been attacked, but that, the attacker’s mates had said that he had been responsible. O’Brien, was not convinced, but let Jock lie, un-hindered.
“Ahh well, you’ve done your time. Now, what else can you tell me?”
For a moment there was a silence. “I ‘avna, been successful, in ma application to join the SAS.” He said, almost apologetically.
“What about the new undercover force?” O’Brien’s pitch telegraphed his concern.
“That neither.”
“I don’t understand, what’s the problem?”
Steen had no hesitation in his, quickly constructed response. “They avne got theirr act t’getherr yet.” He lied. “Ma name’s doon for the first intake.”
“Any idea when that’ll be?” O’Brien’s voice had a note of optimism in it.
“Ave no idea, but I’ll keep the pressure up.”
“That’s good, Jock, I’ll let my friends over the water know that you are pursuing that. Well done.”
“I’ve bin told tae day that the Regiment is tae spend the summer training in Canada, so it’ll be some time before a can properly apply.”
The problems and position understood, the conversation ended and Steen made his way back to his block. The hate inside him for the ‘British Military’ was becoming unbearable.
He knew he had no chance of infiltrating the heart of the Special Forces, and, realising that one day he would have to face his handlers, he began to construct a way out of the predicament his lying had put him in.
His thoughts turned to the possibility of spending the summer planning, in the lea of the Canadian Rocky Mountains. Talk of another four month tour of Northern Ireland, scheduled to start in July 1993, stirred him.
…

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.
…