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.
…