by Matt Johnson
One thing struck me. On entering the room, I had been surprised I was the only military. I would have expected to have seen some spooks from the intelligence corps. But there were none. And now I was starting to realise why. This was an investigation and I was the suspect.
Connell led the conversation. I sat forward in my chair. From the looks the group gave me, I could see that I had their attention. I did my best to describe in detail how my small, four-man patrol had flown in to observe the arms dump that had been discovered accidentally by an RUC patrol. I avoided ‘army speak’ to avoid confusing them. If there is one thing soldiers are guilty of it’s talking in our own stilted language. Some police officers understood the lingo, most didn’t. So, I kept it simple. A cache of weapons had been left undisturbed in a dustbin buried underground in the middle of a deserted farmyard. Our team had been briefed to surround and observe the farmyard so that anyone arriving to collect something from the dustbin could be arrested.
I described how, after two days in position, the team’s patience had been rewarded: at two a.m. a lone male had entered the yard and started digging up the dustbin. The man had been challenged. When he responded to this by drawing a weapon from his pocket, he had been shot dead. I spared them a description of the injuries an MP5 had caused to the unfortunate boy’s face.
The subsequent question-and-answer session lasted for about half an hour. Several times I had to go over points I had already explained. My suspicion was right – this was definitely more cross-examination than de-brief. Connell, in particular, asked a lot of questions about the pre-op briefing and instructions given to soldiers in the event of contact.
In those days, I had little experience of interview technique. But I knew that most of the policemen, particularly someone like Connell, who had worked his way up through the ranks, knew how to tell the difference between a story and an account. They would be examining any repeated words or descriptions to see whether I, the ‘suspect’, was padding out a story to make it believable, or if I was describing the truth. I guess they figured I was kosher.
At last, we moved on to discuss the reason why I had attended the meeting in the first place. There was a threat from a new IRA cell that was operating in the area. Connell gave us a run-down.
The main suspects were brothers – Michael and Richard Webb. They were very junior members of the Provisionals. Until recently the Webb boys had run messages, carried ammunition and guns, and assisted members of the active service units by keeping watch. However, intelligence sources reported that they had now both been blooded.
Richard, at seventeen, was the eldest by two years. His olive skin and dark hair gave him a Greek appearance and so he’d become known as ‘Dick the Spic’. He had been christened as a sniper. An experienced IRA gunman had allowed him to fire an old Lee Enfield at an RUC patrol from the roof of a tower block. Richard missed and had almost been caught by the pursuing patrol.
Michael, still only fifteen, had planted a small bomb in a Protestant pub. He had telephoned a warning but had forgotten to use a code word and in the half-hearted moves to evacuate the pub, the barman had been killed.
Apparently, the two boys now considered themselves to be old hands.
Connell handed around a set of photographs for us to look at. I hadn’t seen either of the boys before. I did, however, recognise one of the people with whom he was pictured.
‘John Boyle,’ I said.
‘That’s right, Captain,’ replied O’Keefe. ‘We think that Boyle may be using the two boys to plan an attack.’
‘Do we have any idea of the target?’ I asked.
Connell paused and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘We believe the target is … the Assistant Chief Constable.’
We all remained silent.
O’Keefe was rigid and showed no emotion as Connell continued with his report. It was a frightening prospect, knowing that you were a specific target. Every RUC officer took precautions, general checks and methods to minimise the risk, but to be made aware that you had been singled out upped the ante considerably.
A report from Special Branch judged the threat from Boyle and his team to be ‘moderate’. That told me little. I guessed it meant that the risk was real but not imminent.
We talked at length about the threat, precautions O’Keefe could take and ways in which the threat might be countered.
Just before the meeting closed, O’Keefe fixed me with a cold stare. ‘What are your thoughts on these new lads, Captain?’ he asked.
‘Do you want a soldier’s view or one that is more acceptable, sir,’ I replied.
‘Just say what you’re thinking.’
‘Ok, I will. You know as well as I do that Special Branch can tell us who these guys are, where they live, where they drink, and the touts will even tell us other stuff about them. But you want them stopped, I guess.’
‘We want all forms of terrorism stopped, Captain. Not just this particular team.’
‘I understand that, sir, believe me. What I’m trying to say is that you operate from a perspective that treats these men as criminals.’ I could see from the attentive stares of those present that I had their attention.
‘Do go on,’ said O’Keefe.
‘With respect, sir. I’m a soldier and I think and act like one. People like me have been brought here to put fear back into the minds of the Provos.’
‘And how would you propose we should do that?’
‘Make it clear to them that if they target coppers they pay with their lives.’
‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying? That we should actually operate a shoot-to-kill policy?’
‘I’m saying we treat them like enemy soldiers and not like civilian criminals. If they pick up the gun and try to kill us, they know that the fight they are getting into is likely to leave them dead. Make them afraid.’
‘Like they fear the SAS, you mean?’
‘I mean so they understand that if they target us, we will come after them.’
O’Connell coughed. It was a timely intervention, interrupting what was turning into a political debate.
It was now ten o’clock. O’Keefe called time on the meeting.
I was the first to leave. As I walked through the ACC’s reception, the secretary was at her desk. I gave her a wink; she smiled in reply.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Samantha.’ Nice name, I thought. Reminded me of a pretty little kid that was at school with my younger brother.
‘Be seeing you soon, Samantha.’
‘I hope so.’ The voice was warm, the smile broad. Different time, different place I’d be in there, I thought.
Another one of my weaknesses. But, well, I was younger then.
I wandered back to the Rover, recovered my pistol from beneath the driver seat and slipped it into my shoulder holster. The V8 engine roared into life at the first turn of the key and I headed off for base.
After seeing the dickers in the Cortina, I had already decided to play it safe and take a different route back to base. There was a detour along the eastern route out of Castlederg. It turned south and then drove parallel to the road by which I had arrived. I kept my hat on until I was away from the built-up area. The country lanes were normally deserted.
Held up for a short while by a slow-moving tractor, I had to accelerate to make up time. I was doing fifty on a single-track lane when a sudden movement in my rear-view mirror caught my eye. A blue Cortina was fifty yards behind and gaining fast.
The hairs on my neck stood up again. It was definitely the car I’d seen earlier. But this time there were four occupants.
My heart started to pound as the adrenaline pumped into my blood stream. It was time to be away. I hit the accelerator hard.
The road straightened out. The Cortina had now caught up and was again about fifty yards behind. In my mirror I could see the front-seat passenger leaning out of the window holding an AK47.
I immediately reached under the dash and
activated the emergency locater beacon. Within seconds an alarm would be raised at GCHQ satellite monitoring. A back-up team would be on their way to me in minutes. That wasn’t going to help me now, though. However quickly they scrambled, the helicopter could not fly fast enough to make a difference. The Starship Enterprise was what I needed.
The rear screen of the Rover smashed as rounds from the AK47 punched through it. Instinctively I ducked.
I was going to have to fight for my life, and do it alone.
Chapter 6
As the glass from the broken window sprayed around me, I hit the gas.
The gearbox of the Rover kicked down, the powerful engine quickly putting space between me and the gunmen. I must have been doing eighty. It was too fast. The lane was narrow, high verges and thick hedges. If I met another tractor around the next bend I wouldn’t need to worry about my pursuers.
I searched my mind for an idea of what to do. I was a soldier and, supposedly, a trained driver. This should be a simple choice: run or fight. Adrenaline was preparing my body but clouding my thoughts; I tried to order them: if I crashed the terrorists would have me cold. So that was it, running wasn’t an option. I eased off the speed. There was nothing for it: I would have to meet them. But it would be on my terms. A plan began to take shape in my mind. I had to have an edge over them. What I needed was a nice blind bend.
I guess I was maybe a hundred yards in front when I found one. There were high trees on both sides with steep banks in front of them. If I stopped, the Cortina driver wouldn’t be able to get past me.
As I rounded the turn, I hit the brakes hard then yanked up the handbrake and swerved. The Rover slewed across the lane with the driver’s door facing away from the oncoming Cortina.
‘Thank fuck,’ I said out loud. It was the first time I’d completed the manoeuvre successfully.
With the road now blocked, I rolled out of the Rover and onto the road as fast as I could. Raw fear either motivates or immobilises. Luckily for me, it was the former. I was moving fast and my repeated exercises on the ranges were paying off. In a fraction of a second the Beretta was out of its shoulder holster and I was crouched behind the engine block, ready. Ready? By Christ, my hand was shaking even more than my heart was pounding.
The Cortina screeched around the bend and locked up.
I’d already decided the front-seat passenger with the AK47 was my greatest threat. As the Cortina skidded to a halt it presented me with a clear target by throwing him against the windscreen.
I aimed as best I could, firing six rounds. The windscreen exploded in a shower of glass. There were screams of pain and the sound of a male voice shouting.
The assault rifle skidded across the tarmac towards the Rover. My ears began to ring and the smell of cordite entered my nostrils. My senses felt alive, alert, excited. It was the first time I had aimed a pistol at an enemy, the first time I had taken on a live target.
I fired another three rounds, this time through the driver’s side of the now broken windscreen. I saw the outline of a body jerk back as the bullets struck home. Two more men appeared from the back seat, both of them small. The one on the driver’s side rolled out onto the bank; he had another AK47 in his hands.
Nine rounds fired, I thought; that left six in the magazine. Five for the last two gunmen and one for me. Either that or I took off for the hills. I wasn’t about to be taken prisoner.
I heard the sound of a drum beating loud in my ears. Then, I realised what it was. I could actually hear the rapid beating of my heart as the blood pumped through my veins. All my earlier apprehension and fear had gone, replaced by excitement, survival instinct, blood lust, I’m not sure exactly what; but I was now into the combat. And I’m not ashamed to say that I loved it. To fight and win is what every soldier trains for and I was doing just that.
I’d lost sight of the two surviving gunmen. Realising they must be behind their car, I quickly crawled around the front of the Rover. The familiar staccato crack of an AK47 broke the silence as the remaining windows of the Rover exploded. I had to take out that AK, and fast.
A barrel appeared above the rear of the Cortina. I crouched and fired over the bonnet of my car, using the strength and solidity of the engine for protection.
I put three more bullets through the rear of the terrorist car and then held my fire. There was nothing solid to block the 9mm rounds, they would have passed straight through the thin metal and plastic. Everything became quiet.
Three rounds left. Nearly time to run.
From behind the Cortina, a small man stood up. He looked very young, no more than a teenager.
The moment I saw his face, I knew him. Not half an hour before, I had been looking at his picture. It was Richard Webb, one of the new local IRA cell.
He raised his hands. They were red, bright red. He was either badly wounded or covered in blood from one of the others.
‘I surrender,’ he screamed at me. ‘I give up. Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.’
I should have shot the kid there and then. Most of the guys in my troop would have done. In the heat of battle there was no way to judge how dangerous this apparently unarmed boy actually was. Most of my nightmares since have ended with him pulling a hidden gun and shooting me.
But for some stupid reason, I held my fire and called out to him. ‘Where’s the other one, where’s your mate?’
Silence.
Webb walked slowly forward, his hands high in the air. He looked like a very scared child.
I shouted again. ‘Lie down on the ground.’
He stood still. I could see he was that petrified, he couldn’t do anything. Where the hell was that other one, I thought.
The lull was broken by wild rifle shots. The fourth terrorist limped around the front of the Cortina firing the AK47 from his waist, his leg bleeding profusely as he launched a desperate last charge.
This time, I was more controlled. I fired just twice, it was all I could risk. The first round missed. I held my breath, gripped the Beretta tight and prayed. The second round struck home, middle of the chest. He dropped like a stone.
But as he did, one of the bullets from the AK ricocheted under the floor of the Rover and hit my left boot. The force spun me around and dumped me on my back.
As I fell, I caught sight of Webb running away.
I was now exposed. I had one round left. That would be for me if the attack wasn’t over.
I waited. The pain in my foot was manageable but, as I tried to stand, I soon realised that I was going nowhere. It felt like the bullet had gone straight through my heel.
For the next fifteen minutes I hobbled and then crawled to the edge of an adjacent copse. As the anaesthetic effect of adrenaline lessened, the pain increased.
I soon started to run out of energy. Locating a large tree, I sat down with my back to the gnarled trunk.
I checked my boot. There were two small and jagged holes near the heel where it looked like a fragment of the AK47 round had gone straight through. Although the pain was intense and I was losing blood, I breathed a sigh of relief. A direct hit could easily have taken my foot off.
As I sat back to wait, I considered my options. I needed to stay close to the Rover to ensure that the rescue team could find me, but I also faced the possibility of young Richard Webb returning with some mates. He would have seen me go to ground and would know that I was hit.
I decided to give it twenty minutes. After that time, if no help had arrived I would make myself scarce.
My heart rate slowed as my breathing returned to normal. In the distance I could hear a metallic clicking as the engine of one of the abandoned cars cooled down.
I checked the Beretta. There was a round in the chamber and, just as I had expected, the magazine was empty. I had counted right. One left for me.
Behind me, several birds in the copse burst into song. I figured that they must have been silenced by the recent gunfire and that now, realising that the commotion had subsided, they considered it
safe enough to resume their normal behaviour.
In the tree above me, a wood pigeon cooed. It was a good sign. I had a look-out, a pair of eyes with a view that would be scanning the local field for any sign of approaching danger.
A faint throbbing noise reached my ears. I checked the sky and listened. The familiar thud of a helicopter rota grew slowly louder. I allowed myself a smile. Help was on its way.
The rescue team helicopter soon hovered over the lane. I dropped the Beretta into its holster, raised my arms above my head and hobbled out to greet them. My pigeon sentry took off across the field, his personal safety now far more important than looking out for me.
With the helicopter above me and with the effect of adrenaline starting to wear off, I lay down on the grass.
A few moments later, I winced as a medic began cutting my boot off.
‘The bullet’s gone straight through, missed the bone by the look of it,’ he said, cheerfully.
A Parachute Regiment Sergeant loomed over me, the pistol in his right hand pointed at my head. ‘Who are you, mate?’ he demanded.
I explained.
‘Well, with respect, boss, you’ve made a right mess here. You on your own?’
‘Fraid so.’
‘Well you slotted all three. You done well, you done bleedin’ well. Give us a few minutes and we’ll have you loaded up and out of here.’
My body sagged as the morphine syrette the medic had pushed into my thigh took effect. Lying there in the dirt, soaked in sweat with the smell of cordite and blood in my nostrils, the prospect of a bath and a warm bed seemed like paradise. And there was always that secretary.
A few days later, as I limped into the squadron debrief, I gracefully accepted the ribbing I was due on account of forgetting to take a spare magazine.
But my decision to use a Beretta was vindicated. With a smaller magazine, the Browning would not have had the firepower to get me out of the jam. The Beretta did.
