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.

WAIT OUT part 13 Contact!

Five days after ‘the night of terror’, as the Fusiliers would forever call it, I looked out from the RAF’s VC10. A plume of smoke drifted up to meet us as we banked over Belfast on our final approach. The rows of tiny houses growing larger and coming to life as Belfast’s Aldergrove airport appeared below us. Within minutes of landing, we were whisked out of sight, issued with ‘flak jackets’ (bullet proof vests), given our destination, told which transport to board, and began our journeys across the city to our allocated units. I sat alone in the back of the vehicle, aware that the, heavy armoured vehicle, was shielding me from the long lines of mourners who had come to pay their respect to the Pub’s dead.
Although it was difficult to see or hear what was going on outside, I was aware that we were moving through busy streets. The Saracen’s driver and escort said nothing, each concentrating on the journey. As we turned sharply left, I could clearly hear two high velocity shots. In recognition the vehicle lurched as the driver put his foot down, swinging it from side to side as he swerved in an effort to escape the line of fire.
“What’s happening?” I shouted as I clung to the vehicle’s sides.
“Shots, two of them”. Came the escort’s reply. “Just hang on, you’ll be ok”.
My SLR, (Self-Loading Rifle) had hardly been unpacked and here I was poised to use it at any moment. “Where about are we?” My voice only just managed to get over the screams of the powerful engine.
“North Queen Street”. The driver replied.
Before I could say anything else the heavy armoured car screeched to a stop, the momentum throwing me across the floor.
“Bollocks!” The driver said it all.
His escort turned calmly to me. “We’ve ended up in the middle of a funeral, “there’s people taking cover everywhere.”
“I’ll reverse and turn down by the old people’s home.”
The driver changed his position in an effort to see through the two tiny slits that pushed their way through the steel plate to the outside world.
Moments later we were heading away from the reorganising funeral. Only to be stopped again, this time by an advancing ambulance, its sirens bouncing off the steel all around me.
Once again, the escort turned to me. “We’re going nowhere for a while. Someone’s been hit, we’ll get out and give some cover.”
I felt my throat dry a little as the heavy metal doors swung open, the driver and escort standing either side, weapons at the ready. I stepped out and took my first real view of ‘the area of operations’. A crowd had gathered and were watching me as I moved my weapon to the ready position. This could have been a street anywhere in England. It looked a lot like Stoke. The people looked familiar, as though I should know them. One man in particular caught my eye. He was wearing a blue parka, with grey fur around the hood. As our eyes met, I thought he was going to say something, but then he stopped, as though he thought better of it. I closed the back doors and realised the reason for our attendance. Further down the street I could see the Red and White hackles of the Fusiliers as they hurried back and forth into an old people’s home, carrying first aid kits and field dressings. Then, as though from a film set, two military police came out and took up fire positions, they were followed by several fusiliers and a ‘corridor’ of fire power formed, protecting the ambulance crew who were wheeling a stretcher carrying a badly injured corporal, the result of another, well aimed, sniper’s bullet.
When I finally arrived at Bessbrook Mill I was unceremoniously deposited and had to find my way to the MT office.
Bessbrook was a large site and had obviously been built as a factory. In the location were men from the 2nd Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, The Scots Guards and 45 Commando. My orders were to join 45 and work with them as a driver. I met up with a corporal from 10 Regiment RCT, who would normally be stationed in Bielefeld, Germany. This fat, black haired Welshman was obviously pleased to see me, as my arrival signalled the end of his four month tour.
News of my arrival and my quick introduction to the streets had spread. A number of soldiers asked me about it as I collected my bedding from the stores. Having satisfied their curiosity, I was given a room number and made my way along a maze of buildings and corridors. Eventually, I arrived at my allocated room. It was a small room, cramped with four sets of grey, iron two-man, bunk beds. I looked around, only one was empty. I threw my bedding and kit down, and began the task of making my own little nest. As I made my bed I became aware of someone standing behind me, I turned around and met the deep dark eyes of a Guards officer. I couldn’t see his rank, I didn’t have to, I could tell a ‘Rupert’ (Commissioned Officer) from a mile away, although, I have to say this one seemed a bit different. I stood to attention immediately, wondering what the hell he wanted.
“Sir,” I said as he walked in.
“Oh, forget that here, I can’t be bothered with all that.”
I couldn’t put the months of Army training behind me that quick and still stood to attention as he sat on my bed. I looked down and could see that he was well built, fit, and had the look of a fighting man. His nose was a little flat and slightly twisted, broken high on the bridge, there was a light swelling around his eyes as though fat had covered old injuries, the shadow cast from his beret, which was shaped more like a squadies than an officers, accentuated the swelling.
“I’m very interested in the trouble you saw earlier today.” He said as he lay back. “Did you see the crowd at all?”
“Some of it, Sir.” I replied
“I wonder, did you recall seeing a man about my height and age, wearing a very distinct dark blue parka coat with grey fur around the hood?”
I thought for a moment before I answered. “Yes Sir, I think I did.”
“Think, or know?”
“Yes, I’m sure I did, a man in his mid twenties, he was standing near to the back of the Saracen as I got out.”
“What made you notice him?”
“I thought I knew him for a second, I got eye contact with him, he looked as though he was going to say something but then moved away.”
Before we could say anything else the doorway was filled with the figure of Sergeant Bob Ackerman and another man, both were wearing civvies (civilian clothes) and looked as though they hadn’t had a haircut or shave for some time.
“I might of bloody known,” he said as he recognised me, “Driver Griffiths.” he continued, “I see you’ve met Mr Nairac here.” He nodded to the officer. “This is Eddy McGee.” He introduced the slightly built man, who now sat with Nairac on the bed. “This gentleman, is Driver Ken Griffiths of 47 Air Despatch, we met in training.”
I was puzzled.
“Have you asked him about the contact?” McGee asked Nairac, through thin lips his and diluted Yorkshire accent.
“Yes, he says he’s seen someone fitting our man’s description.”
“Well, he’s no fool, ” Ackerman chipped in, “we can work on the basis that he’s seen what he says he’s seen.”
“Good!” Nairac said, as he stood to leave.
The three men moved out of the room. Ackerman told me to meet them in the ops’ room at 19.00 hours.
At the appointed time, I arrived at the OP’s room. It was a long, thin, room with an equally, long, thin, table. Cheap wooden seats were placed all around. Many of them taken up by uniformed figures. Cigarette smoke filled the air. Around the walls maps hung between black and white writing boards, all of which were soiled by the stains of a thousand former briefings. I sat down between Ackerman and Eddy McGee. A small squat guy, with very short light hair, wearing a dark blue tracksuit, sat next to Eddy, he looked vaguely familiar. Across from us sat a tall Royal Marine with jet black hair, huge shoulders and arms. He sat with his elbows on the table, his massive hands interwoven, a name tag neatly sown on his combat jacket introduced him simply as Lair, there was no rank, but he was obviously a Rupert. Other soldiers sat around but these four seemed to be the ‘Head Shed’ bods.
Ackerman opened the discussion and explained that he had been in a covert location with Eddy, when they heard shots from a sniper’s rifle. But, they were too far away to be of any use.
The squat guy next to Eddy leaned forward. “I was on the roadside when the shots were fired. I had a clear view until an armoured car hurtled around the corner.”
All eyes turned to me. “I wasn’t driving, ” I said in my defence. I looked at the ‘tracksuit’, and realised that he was the man in the blue parka.
He introduced himself, “Tony Ball” He said. He looked across at the Marine’s Rupert, “I’ll say this again John, there has to be a leak. Look at the statistics, we’ve had five shootings, and two explosions on the patch, each incident in or near a secure location.”
John Lair thought for a moment. “We have no real intelligence, we’re reliant on Robert’s contacts in the RUC.” He said thoughtfully.
Nairac responded, “There has to be a concerted effort to gather our own intelligence, as well as pick the brains of other professionals. It’s clear that there is a break down in information sharing.”
“ Two days ago,” Ball jumped in, “I saw three MI5 guys at a meeting aboard HMS Belfast, all they did was ‘slag off’ MI6, it’s ridiculous.” Tony Ball’s frustration was obvious.
McGee responded, “We need to develop our own undercover teams, we’ve done it in other theatres, we’re blind without good quality, first hand information.
The discussion was going over my head and I was beginning to wonder why I was party to it, when John Lair took the floor.
“ Ok, we’ll go down to the HQ briefing and put our cards on the table. We’ll need a driver and escort.”
“ Gavin, you’re the duty driver,” A voice from the far end of the room filtered down. I looked across and was surprised to see a Royal Corps of Transport, Captain. Cpt Fred Holder was a tall, slim man, although commissioned, his demeanour suggested that he was an enlisted man. “ I’ll come along and show you the route, 45 will provide the escort.
A short time later, the Head Shed, were on the move, this time they were all in full uniform and taking their proper parts in the Army I knew and understood. They climbed aboard my Pig (armoured car). Cpt Holder climbed in the passenger seat as two commandos positioned themselves either side of the closing back doors.
Holder said very little, other than to guide me along the unfamiliar route to Lisburn. Throughout the journey, there was a solemn silence, the passengers deep in thought, preparing themselves for the meeting to come.
The security at Lisburn was extremely tight. Once I’d dropped off my ‘cargo’, I was ushered to a parking area, which was full to bursting, with armoured vehicles from all over the province. It was clear that this was an important meeting. For four hours the HQ block stood in silence, the thick walls concealing any sign of the ‘high powered’ meeting going on inside. Escorts and drivers waited patiently, their whispered conversations adding to an already, eerie atmosphere.
The sound of a door opening hailed the end of the meeting, a steady stream of uniformed men appeared, as scores of engines came to life, exhaust fumes filled the cold night air.
Unlike the journey out, the Pig was full of excited conversation for the return journey, each man echoing and approving the HQ’s decision to form a specialist military force to work undercover in the province.
…