Why?

The sun was setting over the hills behind my position. Turf Lodge Estate lay in the shadows shrouded in a golden grey hue, which hid its deprivation. I lay huddled against the wall of sandbags; an uneasy feeling crept over me as the night took hold. The quiet of the observation post added to my apprehension…
Because of its unique location high on the outskirts of Belfast the security forces had long used the electricity sub station for covert observations. The winding road, which entered the estate from the rich countryside, ran just a few yards from the main gate and was a favourite entry and exit point for terrorists.
A section of infantry had set up a vehicle checkpoint around the first bend, out of sight of the estate’s prying eyes earlier in the day. The quiet was disturbed as I heard them pack up and start their vehicles. Within minutes the sound of the engines faded. And a haunting quiet returned.
Instinctively, I searched the sky as my ears picked up the bop, bop, bop as the home made mortars left their drainpipe launchers. Mesmerised, I watched three bombs tumbled out of control towards us . The first hit the sub station perimeter wire and fell to the ground harmlessly. The other two cleared the fence; hit an area of loose pebbles and exploded. The orange flashes sucked the oxygen from my lungs. I threw myself flat onto the floor. The bombs packed with six-inch nails, sent steel and pebbles flying over my body. Jeff hadn’t moved quickly enough: the blast forced him into me. His blood and torn flesh oozed through my fingers as I pushed him off, and placed him into the recovery position. Nails were embedded in his back and legs; some had been forced under his skin, stretching it into grotesque shapes.
Seconds later, the quiet returned only the dust and smell of spent explosives remained to tell the tale. Jeff lay conscious, but without sound or movement. His eyes said it all, the shock showing deep in them.
The medics had been quick to respond. Jeff had been stabilised, and waved to the rest of us, as the doors of the armoured ambulance slammed shut.
I held that scene in my mind as his replacement arrived. Jock McCann was a tall lean man, whose dark bushy eyebrows met in the middle. In our elite unit we worked in small groups of four. Jeff gone, Jock’s presence put us back to strength.
I briefed the new arrival and made my way back to the observation post. Dave Bryant took up his position at the main gate. Jock stayed with the radio, and I lay watching the estate with Andy Hall close to hand. The night took hold. Once again, the quiet set in and the uneasy feeling returned. My senses heightened and I peered into the dimly lit streets, expecting something, but not knowing what. In the background I could hear raised voices. I strained to listen; it seemed that Jock and Dave were arguing. Before I could clarify my thoughts, instinctive reaction, forced me to the ground in response to a sudden sharp crack as a weapon discharged. A second shot rang out. The noise stopped as suddenly as it started. I heard the screams of someone in pain. My thoughts and gaze turned to the main gate and the road leading into the estate. I half expected to see another set of smoking drainpipe weaponry, but there was nothing to be seen. Puzzled, I moved towards the sound of the injured. Two more shots rang out, the bullets passing above my head. The thud as they hit the sandbags confirmed their high velocity. I ran and dived for cover, hiding between the massive electricity generators. By the time the third shot rang out, I’d realised that I was being targeted. I moved quickly dodging in and out of the machinery until I came to rest at the foot of a concrete pillar. I had a clear view of the main gates, which lay fifty foot in front of me. One of them was open the body of the injured man preventing it from swinging shut. He stopped screaming and lay motionless. The sound of his sobbing filled the gap between us. I couldn’t make out who was lying there. I wanted to shout to him, but feared giving my position away. I scanned the area. There’s no cover, what about there, no, not there, no cover, white stone chatter, very noisy, too much of it, silent so much silence every bloody where, no sobbing no movement, my movement; movement means signal, signal means give away position why? Why me? I shouldn’t be here, I should be back at home with my mum, eighteen only eighteen, a boy no man, oh shit, don’t go, stay, stay where you are, it’s safe here. Go you’ve got to go that’s why you’re here it’s what you do, how stupid, how silly, this can’t be true, can’t be right what’s right, other side of left, get your arse in gear Griff go mate go, go on. My fear wrestled with my conscience thought after thought ran through my mind. Suddenly, my training took over; I leapt up from my cover and hurled myself towards the gate. Nothing moved no shots rang out. I pulled the semi conscious figure towards me. Dave’s face was distorted with pain. I pulled his smock open. A trickle of blood ran down from a small hole in the side of his stomach. The smell of his involuntary bowel movement made me heave. I ripped his field dressing from his belt and forced the pad against the wound. I ran to the radio. Jock had gone. I called for assistance and took up a defensive position overlooking the estate. Peering into the dimly lit streets I could clearly make out the figure of Jock as he ran towards a known IRA safe house. Moments later a black taxi arrived and carried him away. Realising that he had defected, I rang off a volley of shots, but to no avail. I watched in disbelief as the taxi headed towards Belfast, slipping through the search light of the advancing helicopter, which, minutes later carried, Dave as he passed over Belfast and out of this life.