MRF Shadow Troop

by Simon Cursey

  After the formalities and introductions were out of the way, the Boss started to explain things to us, and at last we began to get a proper picture of what we were becoming involved in.

  ‘Officially we, the MRF, don’t exist – on paper, that is – and very few people actually know anything about us. We’re directly responsible to the GOCNI [General Officer Commanding Northern Ireland] and no-one else.’ It was an incredibly simple chain of command, cutting out almost the entirety of the Army structure.

  ‘We operate totally outside the bounds of the uniformed forces,’ he confirmed, ‘and we normally train to work alone or at the best in small groups of two to four, forming part of a very small, top secret specialist counter terrorist unit [CTU], a totally new concept.’ He carried on, ‘If we are ever caught on the streets by a terrorist group, the authorities will emphatically deny all knowledge of our existence, and a cover story will be put out that you were probably just an off-duty soldier.’

  This was serious stuff: we would be totally on our own without any safety-net. I thought of us swinging around in the air like monkeys on the confidence course.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter, you realise,’ said the Boss. ‘If you were ever caught, the IRA wouldn’t hesitate to kill you straight away. As the Americans would say, we are a classic black ops unit or “spooks”.… So welcome aboard, gentlemen. Do you have any questions so far?’

  Needless to say, I was lost for words after an introduction like that, and I’m sure my two pals were also a little shocked.

  I replied, ‘No questions, Sir – Boss, that’s fine. It all sounds very interesting.’ My two friends agreed.

  He continued. ‘The unit consists of me as OC, together with three Intelligence Corps fellows. They work closely with me in co-ordinating operations, collating information and generally taking care of the ops room and manning the radios. The overall unit strength should be approximately 35 members who are specially chosen from numerous selected Army units, including the Royal Marines, Parachute Regiment, Military Police, former Special Air Service members and Special Boat Service. We are divided into three sections of eight to ten men,’ he added. ‘The sections’ radio call signs are 81, 82 and 83.’

  Pointing to his right with a tilt of his head, the Boss indicated the armoury behind the radio console in the next room. ‘We also hold quite a variety of weapons in our armoury: 9mm Browning pistols, Walther PP and PPK pistols, Sterling submachine guns – two or three of them fitted with silencers. We have at least one Thompson machine gun, plus some other weapons together with some Pye hand-held radios and a large amount of camera and photographic equipment.’

  It was an Aladdin’s cave of boys’ toys, and I also noticed later that in our store room we kept an impressive variety of equipment which enabled us to keep up a close target reconnaissance (CTR). This included the box I saw earlier and some other items like wheel barrows and cleaning equipment. I could just see myself dressed in overalls walking around the city pushing one of those around – which, as it turned out, actually happened quite regularly.

  ‘The unit vehicles,’ the Boss went on, ‘are a Hillman Hunter, two Ford Cortinas, two Morris Marinas and two Hillman Avengers, but don’t be misled by their appearance. They are all tuned up, with larger engines than normal. Plus, there are one or two other unofficial vehicles that will mysteriously appear for a while then disappear.’

  I learned later that these unofficial vehicles were actually stolen or ‘confiscated’ from the IRA during some of our operations. We held onto these vehicles after Special Branch had finished going over them and sometimes we used them for a while before dumping them.

  I remember that once we had this lovely big white car. John, a chap in our section, told us the IRA had previously used it for transporting weapons and the odd shooting. It was a great motor, ran like a dream. It looked like a big Maxi, but I think it was one of the old Austin 18-22 series. We played with it for a few weeks, taking it out for a spin along the coast road while ‘off duty’. Then one morning, sadly, it was gone.

  Our vehicle radio call signs were Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot and Golf. Therefore, with my section being 83, if I used vehicle Bravo my call sign would become 83 Bravo. If I was on foot, I would use my personal call sign of ‘Sierra Charlie’ (my initials). Occasionally we would drop these phonetic call signs altogether and just use our first names, depending on what we were doing or where we were.

  The unit operated on the basis of a three 12-hour-shift system. One section would be on duty, one off duty and the other on standby, usually hanging around the ops room area so they could be called out at a moment’s notice. Even the off-duty section was always on one-hour standby to be called out if required to help any of the other sections.

  After our little briefing, the Boss took us into the operations room where we were introduced to a number of characters milling around who looked like plumbers, builders and decorators. They happened to be the standby section and were just waiting around, fiddling with items of equipment or checking over their maps, preparing for their duty stint. While the OC was showing us around, he made it clear that we were in a training phase and if he felt we were unsuitable, he could RTU us – send us back to our parent units. He also added that if we were unhappy with the job, we could leave at any time during the next few weeks, with no hard feelings. Exactly what we’d been told by our OC back at camp.

  ‘The training phase takes approximately five to six weeks and for most of this time the training will be on the job,’ he explained. ‘We are extremely busy, we have many commitments and I really can’t afford to have people or trainers away or detached for long periods of time.’

  Our training phase involved such subjects as mobile and static surveillance techniques, OP (observation post) work, long- and short-range covert photography, hijack techniques, anti-hijack techniques, lifting and snatching operations, house breaking and lock picking, prisoner interrogation, CPP – close personal protection or CP - body-guarding, advanced driving – offensive and defensive, resistance to interrogation (R to I) together – most interestingly – with an ongoing programme of ‘demilitarization’.

  It had been a month or so since our initial interview with our old OC and CSM, and along with my two friends, I had a distinct feeling that we had just been dropped into the middle of a dream world. The job certainly appeared to be different from anything I’d been used to for the last five years. Some of the weapons the Boss mentioned, I’d never even seen before, never mind actually having used them. And all this surveillance stuff, covert photography and CP work, just left my mind boggled, making me question whether I could manage to learn all this new covert stuff.

  It was definitely a strange place to be, where everyone seemed to wander around dressed as they liked. And they were all so relaxed: it was more like a civilian world, where people didn’t have to be constantly told or reminded what to do and when to do it. Everyone knew what had to be done and just got on with it. Planet MRF was very different from the regimented, saluting and marching-around kind of life we had recently left behind.

  That evening Mike turned up in our room again. ‘Hope the intro went well,’ he said. ‘The Boss is OK, a bit quiet, but he’s a good guy.’ Then he made an announcement: ‘Tonight I’m going to take you all out into Belfast for a look around the city and some familiarisation with the area. We’ll all be in one car together and each of you can take turns at driving while I sit in the front passenger’s seat – the commander’s position.’ He unfolded a map and prodded it. ‘I’ll be talking you around town and showing you some areas of interest. You need not worry too much although you’ll probably feel quite vulnerable at first, being on your own without 20 or 30 uniformed friends around you. It’s OK, you’ll find that being in plain clothes you’ll blend in and feel quite secure … eventually.’ He looked up at us. ‘Have any of you used the 9-millie pistol before.’

  We replied that we had but not very often and not for quite a
while, so he pulled his pistol out of his waist band, then unloaded and cleared it to remind us how it worked.

  ‘Make sure, if you fire it, that you take a two-handed grip. I don’t want to see any of that one-handed shooting shit you see on TV. Only fire accurate, aimed shots and hold it with two hands.

  ‘Sure, OK,’ we said.

  Mike smiled. ‘Right, you guys go now and get something to eat and I’ll see you at 10:30 pm in the operations room. Don’t be late.’

  I noticed the way Mike said ‘10:30 pm’ and not ‘22:30 hrs’ in military style. Dropping the use of the 24-hour clock I discovered was one of our first lessons in demilitarization.

  We trundled off to grab some food after picking up our cups and diggers, while Mike went back over to the ops room to collect some extra maps and have a chat with the Boss. As we ambled along the path, we were all thinking and saying, ‘This all sounds really great and exciting. I can’t wait to get started, down in the city.’

  We were back in the Ops room early, by 10:00 pm. We didn’t want to miss this trip for the world. Mike arrived soon after and took us behind the console into the armoury. There, he gave us each a 9-millie pistol with two magazines and a full box of 9mm rounds. We checked and cleared the weapons as he gave them to us, then we had a couple of minutes to get the feel of these new and unfamiliar weapons while Mike tinkered with some radio equipment.

  Mike picked up a submachine gun and began clearing it. ‘We don’t need any hand radios as we’re not walking around. For tonight, and until we get you three lads trained up on the 9 millie, just fill both magazines with 12 rounds each, then pop one on the weapon but don’t cock it. We normally carry two magazines of 12 rounds each, plus one round placed into the breech ready to fire, and a handful of loose rounds kept in a pocket.’

  Back in the Briefing room, Mike laid out some large scale maps of Belfast across the table. ‘Gather round you lads and look in,’ he said, and began to give us a short briefing on where we would be going, pointing out some dodgy areas.

  He watched us as we looked at the danger spots on the map. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t be going into any of those hard areas tonight,’ he reassured us, then flashed a cheeky smile. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  His comment didn’t make us smile, and to be honest we were quite happy to be cruising around the quieter areas of the city, at least on our first night. I was thinking, ‘We’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes.’

  I was feeling a little nervous, as I am sure my pals were, too. It was one thing going out onto the streets of Belfast in an armoured ‘pig’ with a big powerful rifle, loads of bullets and an armoured flak jacket to give you some protection. But it’s totally another feeling altogether setting out in a flimsy little family saloon with a pistol stuffed in your belt and just 5mm of glass window between you and the enemy.

  By 11 pm we had our weapons and car documents together and piled into the same car, the Hillman Hunter, that had picked us up earlier in the day. Mike jumped into the front passenger seat and said, ‘By the way, this car is car “Delta” if you happen to hear us mentioned on the radio later.’

  Dave got in the driver’s seat while Ben and I climbed in the back. We headed down the road and out of the Army camp gates, again without stopping, and only switched on our lights as we turned left towards Belfast city.

  ‘OK,’ said Mike. ‘Take your 9 millies and slip them under your lap – we usually carry them this way while we’re in the cars. It’s quicker and easier to get to in that position, under your leg.’

  That evening was an interesting ride round the city and Mike was obviously very knowledgeable about the area. He was very witty and kept cracking jokes, which I felt was to help us to relax in our new environment. During the evening we called into a couple of Army locations around the city centre and one down by Musgrave Park Hospital on the fringes of some of those hard areas. We were introduced to the unit’s intelligence staff over a coffee while Mike collected some documents we had to take back. He did most of the talking while we just kept quiet and stayed in the background, observing things and people while we sipped our coffees and chatted with each other.

  We couldn’t help wondering what the other people must think of us, sitting quietly in our civvies and observing them as Mike chatted away. They probably thought we were just three more of those ‘master spies’ observing and gathering information on them.

  Little did they know, but on that first day we had almost no idea about anything that was going on. We were the blind men in the jungle. We sat there, quietly minding our own business, only pretending to be switched on. Needless to say, over the next few days of studying the maps and patrolling the city with the rest of the section, we became totally switched on.

  If we hadn’t, we would have probably been dead.

  By the time we got back to our hidden base it was almost 3 am. We had been out for four hours but it only seemed like one. The Int. boys were there waiting for us in the ops room with some stewed tea and dried-up sandwiches, and they asked us if we had had a good run around.

  The truth is, that first trip out had been an exhilarating experience for me. Patrolling around those dismal streets as a ‘civvie’ was a new and stimulating experience: we were all buzzing from the rush. After packing our weapons and equipment away, we drank our tea and ate our snacks, while enthusiastically chatting to the ops room lads. After a time, Mike spoke up.

  ‘OK lads, get some sleep when you’re finished. Breakfast starts at 8 am and I’ll see you all at 10 am in the briefing room.’ I’m sure he could see and feel that we were all fired up with enthusiasm for the job, even though we were fresh and didn’t have much idea at that time. Mike must have known that it was his responsibility to keep us safe during these vital first few days, when we were infinitely more likely than later on to commit fatal errors of judgement.

  Back in our room we sat on our beds, put on some easy music and looked at each other in amazement. We didn’t need to say anything because we were all thinking the same thing: What a strange place this was compared to normal military life, where everything, absolutely everything was so different. It was as if we had stepped through the looking glass. As indeed we had.

  After we settled down, Dave and Ben came over to my bed, sat down and asked me, ‘What do you think about it all, Sy?’

  ‘What do I think? Well, it all seems pretty good to me. We’ve got some learning and studying to do regarding these new procedures and weapons … but I think it’s great.’ I didn’t know what I thought until I said it, but I realised it was true: I thought it was great, and a challenge. A great challenge.

  ‘Well, we feel the same,’ they both replied, and then we all turned in for a good night’s sleep – or a few hours’, at any rate.

  The next day, arriving in the briefing room across the pathway, we were introduced to the rest of our section, 83. At first glance as I walked in, I thought to myself, ‘Jesus, what kind of a section is this?’ It was a real mixture of characters waiting there for us to arrive. They all looked a bit odd to my Army mind, with their long hair, unshaven and scruffy clothes, like a bunch of reprobates waiting to audition for a part in The Dirty Dozen, although there were only six of them. But after a couple of minutes of ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’, they came across as a really friendly, switched-on bunch of lads and totally accepted us right away, gathering around us, offering coffee and chatting to us like we were long-lost friends. It wasn’t scruffiness at all that I saw, it was savviness. I was learning about a different kind of camouflage.

  I noticed that although they asked us many questions about our backgrounds and where we came from, and about our Army careers and parent units, there was not a single enquiry about our ranks. Nobody was interested, and here was another shock: whatever this unit was, rank did not matter. It was a strange way to run a railroad, or rather an army, but it felt somehow very good.

  Soon after we sat down with our mugs of tea, Mike arrived and made his way to the front of the
room by the table. As he passed me, I noticed that he had his 9 millie slipped neatly into his waist band. He pulled up a chair and sat down facing us all. ‘Right then, let’s introduce ourselves, shall we?’

  First of all was Mike, our section commander, a sergeant and former member of the Special Air Service, about six feet tall, dark with quite an athletic build, very relaxed and with a jovial, faint Irish accent.

  Next was Tug, Parachute Regiment, a music buff and a north-eastern lad, fair, shorter and quite stocky, with an engineering background – he always had time for a joke even in the most stressful situations.

  Kev was a Royal Marine, on detachment from the Special Boat Service. He hailed from west Yorkshire and was tall, well-built, rugged and looked like a big bear. He had long, wavy brown hair and a moustache. Kev was a very strong, jolly character and looked like he could really take care of himself – plus all the rest of us if need be. He had a strange habit of taking out the 8-inch flick knife he always carried around, and cleaning his fingernails with it. It didn’t matter where he was at the time and it often attracted some disapproving looks if he wasn’t doing it to intimidate someone. Kev was to become a very good friend of mine.

  Colin was also with the Special Boat Service but from north Yorkshire. He was a little shorter and slim with it, with a blonde, wavy Donny Osmond hair style. He was much more softly spoken than Kev, more reserved and with smoother looks – but still as tough as they come.