by Simon Cursey
Three hours later, after they left, I sat wondering how something that had happened 21 years earlier, something I’d almost forgotten about, could still be so interesting, sensitive and highly secret that the British State was determined nobody would ever know what me and a few other blokes had achieved in Ulster back in the early 1970s.
They had wanted to talk about a shooting incident in Belfast in 1972. The main claim was that our patrols were claimed to have been driving around drunk and shooting at random – two accusations that could not have been further from the truth. So I told the RUC officers and the SIB man exactly how it was …
1974: ‘Actions on’
The ‘V’ check I requested earlier came back crackling over the air as a positive stolen car. I looked at John and we both knew that we probably had an ASU (Active Service Unit) of the IRA in front of us – two men in an old Cortina, as it happened. Kev, in the backseat, cocked his SMG, 9mm Sterling submachine gun, while my hand was under my thigh gripping my 9mm Browning pistol, or ‘9 millie’ as we called it. We were alone with no backup vehicles available in the immediate area, which meant we had to stay behind the suspect car until some colleagues arrived. They could then take over the surveillance and we would revert to backup for them. Normally we’d follow for as long as we could and await instructions, either to tail the target to its eventual destination or to apprehend the occupants after we had some backup in the area.
Our weapons were standard British forces issue and were kept loaded and cocked ready to fire, but with the safety catch on, apart from the SMG. Usually, the guy in back only cocked the SMG if we caught sight of some other, hostile, weapons. However, on this occasion Kev had already cocked it and snicked on the safety as he also felt we might have a problem on our hands. Kev, who had come from the Royal Marines, was a tough guy, highly experienced and very professional and knew exactly what he was doing back there in the rear seat. I knew it and our driver, John, also knew it. We only ever drew our pistols from under our laps and took our safety catches off when we saw some weapons on the streets.
It’s not good practice to stay with a suspect vehicle for long periods of time because you can be noticed and this can compromise your position. Under normal circumstances, numerous vehicles carry out a mobile surveillance on another car to prevent being spotted, constantly changing lead position so the target occupants don’t see one single vehicle in their rear-view mirror for any length of time. Right now we didn’t have that luxury. All we could do was to stay well back and try to blend in with the rest of the traffic scurrying around the centre of Belfast on a damp Saturday afternoon. We hoped our target would stay away from areas like Divis, Falls Road, Ardoyne and the Markets. If we had to stop them, check them out and hold them till some uniforms arrived, it would be much easier and safer outside those hard-core Republican areas.
In-between sending a running commentary back to base on the radio for the other teams listening in, we constantly talked through our ‘Actions On’ procedures in the event of a variety of shifting scenarios, which might involve the target vehicle speeding up or slowing down, stopping to pick someone up or stopping and leaving the vehicle parked. We also stayed keenly alert to any possible escape routes available to us, left and right, as we moved through the busy streets. This was in case we were suddenly blocked in and a hijack on us was attempted. Following a target vehicle is a very hectic and dangerous job with many procedures and actions needing to be considered, assessed and re-assessed again and again. As the Driver calmly drives, the Commander (beside him) will be checking the route maps and staying in regular contact with base HQ, while at the same time going over the changing conditions and options with his team. It’s a role that demands ferocious concentration.
Over the radio we were quickly assured by Mike, our section commander in another vehicle, that we would have some backup in ten to 15 minutes’ time. Mike was probably one of the finest soldiers I had ever had the privilege to meet and work with, which I could also say for all the others in my section. If Mike said he would be there, then he would be. If he wasn’t, it would probably be because he was dead.
We had been following the target around the central part of the city for almost half an hour and as far as we could make out, the occupants of the car didn’t suspect anything. But that didn’t make us feel any easier, because as time goes on you begin to feel that everyone and his dog is looking at you; that everybody must have clocked you and put the word out by now. Moments later, the target vehicle turned onto Divis Street, and then up onto the Falls Road.
From the back came Kev’s voice. ‘I think they may have twigged us,’ he said, as the target accelerated past Northumberland Street, heading further west along the Falls Road into the area commonly known among British troops as ‘Indian Country’.
Immediately we had to speed up and get closer, to stay with them as they made their way in the direction of Andersonstown. By now both vehicles were flying along at approximately 50 mph down the busy Falls Road and through one of the most dangerous, aggressive areas in Northern Ireland – to my mind it looked like an obvious chase by now. What’s more, it had become a very dodgy situation in a very dodgy area, as just about every person we passed was sure to be a Republican and they would all have some beef or other with the British. We were certainly drawing unwanted attention to ourselves.
‘I really don’t like this,’ said John the Driver, and I agreed. ‘I just hope Mike or one of the other cars turns up soon.’ But I couldn’t see or hear any sign of them.
Moments later, still speeding deeper into enemy territory, the radio crackled into life as Mike in car ‘Delta’ came over the air. ‘I’m in heavy traffic down around the Markets,’ he announced. ‘Dave and Ben are in car “Charlie” but they’re further away, at the top of Shore Road. Simon, stay with the vehicle and I’ll be with you as soon as possible – just a few more minutes.’
Suddenly, the ‘players’ (as we called them) pulled in and stopped by some shops on the left. We did the same and parked between two cars about 50 metres behind them. Two men immediately climbed out, glanced around and down the road in our direction, then set off smartly together up a side street, each carrying a rifle. I still wasn’t sure if they had spotted us, as the main streets were thronged with cars and Saturday shoppers.
I spoke quickly to John and Kev: ‘I’ll follow on after them. John, can you send back a Sit Rep then catch me up?’
‘No problem, Sy. You go, we’ll just be a minute or so behind you…. But you be careful, alright?’
As the gunmen disappeared into the side streets I jumped out of my car and began to follow, knowing that Kev and John would shortly be following. They still had to ‘call it in’, conceal any documents we were carrying and lock up the motor – we were driving an early 1970s Ford Cortina 1600E and there was no central-locking in those days. I knew Kev would bring along the SMG, especially with the two players seen to be armed. He’d fold down the butt and tuck it under his big jacket, out of sight until it was needed.
As I turned the corner left down Nansen Street, I saw the two men take a right into a back street which ran parallel to the Falls Road. As I went to follow, I registered the view along the back street as quite a familiar one – an alley curtained with brown brick and back-to-backs beyond with low, pitch-roofed sculleries – so like the old opening scene to Coronation Street that I almost looked for the cat sprawled on top of the back-yard wall.
There was no-one else around and I followed on along the alley. With my hands in my pockets, walking with purpose but trying to look natural, I turned another corner and immediately spotted the ‘players’ in the middle of the street, half walking and half running. They were holding their rifles tightly across their chests in both hands. They glanced back towards me, then began to run away faster. They knew for sure I was following them but they didn’t know for certain who I was, so I gave chase until I was 50 metres from them, when I drew my 9-millie and flipped off the safety catch with my ri
ght thumb. The two men stopped for a moment, turned and opened fire at me – about five or six rounds between them. I saw clearly that they each had an M2 Carbine (the standard issue World War Two US assault rifle) – thanks, Noraid – and I ducked to one side trying to find some cover. I returned fire with my 9-millie, shooting two or three ‘double taps’ (two-round bursts). They ran on a little further and I jinked closer, staying near the wall on my right and bobbing around telephone poles, bins and other obstacles, wishing for some form of cover where there was none.
Fifty metres is a long way for a 9-millie and I needed to get a little closer to be more effective with my pistol – ideally within 25 to 30 metres of them for accuracy. The players turned again near the end of the alley, moved apart a little and opened up on me with a few more rounds. I dropped down onto my right knee, trying to cram my torso into a four-inch recess of a garden wall and gate, and fired back fast with what sounded and felt like an automatic burst of five or six rounds. I just needed to get some suppressive fire down on them. I clearly saw and heard rounds cracking and chipping the ground and wall all around me. The smell of cordite was strong, and I felt it in my eyes. I changed the magazine on my pistol; I knew I was close to my last round. I remember noticing that the working parts were forward, so I knew I still had one in the chamber: if the working parts are locked back, then the magazine and chamber will be empty. I carried on, squeezing off four or five more rounds, and was almost certain I had hit one of them.
Although this ‘contact’ had lasted only a few seconds, perhaps a minute, it seemed like ages. It’s like that in combat: the alert brain, high on adrenalin, scrutinises every instant of time for danger and it has the effect of slowing down reality, a bit like ‘over-cranking’ an old-fashioned movie camera to achieve slow-motion. Your heart’s pounding, your breathing’s rapid, you’re trying like hell to concentrate and keep your aim steady. Everything feels sluggish but crystal clear and you’re trying to speed things along to get as many accurate rounds down as you can. It really is the kind of situation that nightmares are made of, like when you’re trying to run away from a dream monster but your feet are too heavy to lift. In the back of my mind I just hoped Kev and John were close by and getting closer: surely they must have heard the shots being fired. Our car could only have been about 150 metres away, around the corner parked on the Falls Road.
The two players must have put down about 20 to 25 rounds between them, and the last thing I remembered before my nice day came to an abrupt end was that one was crouched in a corner, probably hurt, and that his pal was attempting to climb over somebody’s backyard wall.
Then WHACK! A terrifying blinding flash in front of my eyes – I was thrown tumbling and rolling into the street from the shock of an explosion in my face and being hit by a supersonic lump of metal. Really, it was as if I’d been struck by a seven-pound lump hammer wielded by a West Indies test batsman. Initially, all I felt was a strong force and the white flash knock me off my feet. Then within seconds a deep, agonising burning pain followed, exactly like having a white-hot steel rod driven through your leg, which was pretty near what had happened. The bullet was in my knee but the pain stretched the entire length of my leg. The brain is quick in situations like that and began pumping out its endorphins – the body’s home-made heroin – into my bloodstream, so that I quickly felt like I was in a hazy dream, lying there flat on my back looking up at the peaceful clouds blooming over me and being caressed by a gentle cool breeze trickling over my face. I didn’t feel cold even though the ground was still damp from the rain earlier in the day.
Simultaneously, just as I fell still in the road, Kev and John were there. They were kneeling beside me like brothers, covering and shielding me while they ‘eliminated the threat … destroyed the enemy’, as the good book says, unloading some awesome firepower down the alley that immediately neutralised the two terrorists. At the time I had a strange feeling of comfort and contentment and only felt relief that they had caught up with me in time. Within a few moments I had a field dressing on my left knee, but I couldn’t stand very well and so big Kev hefted me over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and carried me back to the car, with his SMG in his left hand and John covering us as we went. By the Cortina, while Kev was bundling and shuffling me into the back seat, I noticed Colin and Tug from our Section waving their arms and holding the traffic back. Mike was in our commander’s seat, talking into the radio and ‘calling in’ the contact we had just had. He looked over his shoulder at me and winked.
‘Hey, you’re in my seat,’ I said. He smiled back as he opened the car door to get out. ‘Sit back and relax, it’s your day off today.’
Before we were leaving the area, the uniformed troops that had been called in were arriving to take over the situation, take control and collect any weapons. Kev jumped in the front with John and we set off for the hospital, with Mike and his team following after they had quickly handed over control of the situation to the Army.
My next stop was Musgrave Park Hospital where I was given the good news by the surgeon that I still had my leg where it was supposed to be. I was lying in a curtained casualty cubicle surrounded by a clutter of trolleys, white sheets and life-saving equipment. The others, Kev, John, Mike, Tug and Colin looked on, taking the mickey and cracking jokes about how small the hole in my knee was. ‘It’s quite a neat little hole’ said Tug, trying to prod his finger in it to see how deep it went, until I told him to sod off.
I explained to the surgeon that I was hit by a ricochet off the wall in front of my face. He told me the bullet had broken in two, losing much of its power, then ‘my’ half had bounced downwards and entered my left leg sideways just above the kneecap. It had mashed up the cartilage on its journey to finally lodge in the centre of my knee. Looking at the X-rays I remember thinking that a fragment from a ricochet was quite powerful enough thanks very much, and I dreaded to imagine what a direct hit would have felt like.
His parting comment, as he looked up from his chart, was that if the whole bullet had struck me directly, in the same place, it would have probably taken off the lower half of my leg. I absorbed this good news and settled down with a cup of tea for a chin-wag with some of the lads while Kev and Colin chatted to the nurses. The guys set off back to base an hour or so later and I was alone.
The Boss, our only officer, turned up the next day to see how I was. He brought some magazines with him and spent a couple of hours with me, chit-chatting about how things were going. But before he left, he mentioned that I’d be out of action for quite some time and that he didn’t know how things would go in the unit over the next year or so. He said that I could come back when I was fit again if I liked. But I’d already thought things over and said, ‘I’m not sure at the moment. I’ll see how things go with the leg.’
‘Okay,’ he replied, ‘See how it goes but stay in touch. And don’t forget, if you want to move on to some other specialist unit later, just let me know first.’ This sort of informality characterised the outfit, and at the time I took it for granted, not realising that our set-up was unique in the British armed forces.
After he went I settled down to enjoy a few days’ rest and some more visits from the lads. Kev and John were the final two who popped in, the night before I was transferred to the mainland. And the last thing that Kev said to me before they left was, typically, ‘Take care of yourself, you little Yorkshire twat.’
I felt at the time I’d probably never see Kev and John or any of the other lads again, and it was a sad moment after they’d gone. And I’m sure they were also thinking the same as they left my room. We had spent a long time continually in each other’s company, trying to stay alive and sometimes failing, tight together but strangely cut off from the rest of the world in our officially non-existent unit. Leaving it would prove to be a very strange and isolating experience.
The next day, I got myself packed up and was transferred to an English hospital to spend a few weeks learning how to walk again. Full recove
ry took over twelve months including lots of physiotherapy and light duties. I found it very boring and frustrating to be hobbling around on crutches unable to do anything I really wanted.
From the point when I left Musgrave Park Hospital, I knew my days as an Army Intelligence under-cover operator, hunting terrorists, were over. I didn’t realise it at the time but it also marked the beginning of the end of my Army career.
This book isn’t a chronology of general military activities in Northern Ireland, or an in-depth thrashing-out of the historical or political background leading up to The Troubles. There are many excellent books which have done this in great detail.
I have, instead, attempted from my own experiences and memory to unveil a little-known side of the British Army in Ulster. It is a story known only to a very few privileged people, many now dead, who regarded it as an ultra top-secret operation – and even those few people, in fact, knew very little of our unit’s activities and what our Operating Procedures were.
Ours was a special department born out of the conflict early on in Northern Ireland at a time, just prior to Bloody Sunday, when the IRA seemed to be running beyond our control; a time when the regular Army looked as if it could not arrest the slide of the Five Counties into anarchy and even all-out civil war. We are now familiar, through heartbreaking experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan, with the difficulties of conventional forces engaging terrorists and insurgents on the ground, especially in an urban environment – one where the enemy can melt at will into the civilian population, and use them as human shields on a permanent basis. We know it now as ‘asymmetric warfare’, but back in the early 1970s it was quite a new experience. The regular army didn’t have the right weapons (too large and high powered for street fighting), they didn’t have the right vehicles (too big, too unwieldy, too damn visible), and they didn’t have the right training for the down-and-dirty fighting needed to successfully tackle hardened terrorist murderers. The regular forces were regulated by the rules. They couldn’t adopt the tactics employed by the IRA to get at the IRA because they were against the rules of this war, and the IRA well knew it.
