'Nope!' came the clipped, emotionless reply.
'Then we might as well lift off,' I said, barely able to keep the frustration from my voice. I jabbed the horn three times in quick succession, terminating the parade. The light went out and we were once more cloaked in darkness.
The Belfast winter slipped by, dark, desultory and depressing. More observation, more photographs; every day the camera shutters clicked with monotonous regularity. Hardened IRA men immortalized in grainy black and white. The green slime would be having a field day piecing together the big picture. And still the killing went on. An armoured pig was hit by an RPG-7. The married corporal inside was very seriously injured, losing his testicles. A part-time member of the Ulster Defence Regiment was shot dead while operating his JCB tractor. A foot patrol in the Turf Lodge came under sniper fire and one member of the patrol was killed. Month after month, on and on it went, and all the while we were seemingly powerless, unable to take part in the action, our cameras our only weapons.
Then everything suddenly changed.
Remington pump-action shotgun, oiled and ready to go; a box of cartridges, ideal for blowing Yale locks out of flimsy doors; Bristol body armour guaranteed to stop anything up to .357 Magnum; high-velocity inserts to give protection against 7.62mm; assault waistcoat with elasticated pockets to take a selection of stun grenades; and finally the Len Dixon belt kit, genuine leather, with the thumb-break, quick-draw holster.
I looked down at the assault equipment laid out neatly on my bed. After weeks of routine patrols, the leash had finally been loosened: we had been put on standby for a possible house assault in the Andersonstown area of the city. A tout had informed the green slime that four armed PIRA had taken over the top flat of a block of flats and were preparing to carry out a snipe on an Army foot patrol.
I picked up the 9mm Browning on the bedside locker, removed the magazine and, gripping the knurled slide with index finger and thumb, cocked the action. The oiled working parts slipped back smoothly, revealing the empty chamber. Satisfied with the weapon's safety precautions, I released the slide, allowing it to snap forward, replaced the fully loaded mag and secured the pistol in the holster on the belt kit. I was just reaching for my personal radio, hanging by its harness on the wardrobe door, when the outside door of the basha flew open.
'Get tooled-up lads, we're going for it!' The urgency in the team leader's voice cracked through the steadiness of our methodical preparations and whipped us into a frenzy of action. We had moved from standby to immediate. We staggered into our body armour, threw on our assault kit, loaded and cocked our weapons, and double-checked our gas-masks for serviceability.
I was lost in a sea of struggling, cursing assaulters as we made for the two armoured pigs that would transport us to Andy's Town. I scrambled into the first pig. Jake, Ginge and Bob were already seated in the cramped interior. Jake, hard and intense, a Jock from the Highland Light Infantry and second-in-command of the assault team, was straightening the splayed ends of the safety-pin protruding from his stun grenade to facilitate quicker withdrawal. The other lads were checking their Heckler & Koch MP5s and adjusting their gas-masks. I took a handful of cartridges from the map pocket of my combat trousers and began feeding the Remington. The pigs lurched forward out through the main gates of the RUC station and into the Springfield Road.
The two pigs turned into the Falls, trundling along at normal patrol speed, heading for Andy's Town. Then we took a right, up Kennedy Way, getting close. Each man was tense, not talking, going over the assault plan in his mind. No orders would be shouted. The drill was automatic. Nothing could stop the ball once it had started rolling. Right turn into Andy's Town, the high whine of the pig's engine in our ears.
'Two hundred metres,' came the terse message from the front. 'One hundred metres.' I could feel the adrenaline start to pump. 'Fifty metres.' The man nearest the back twisted one of the rear door handles and disengaged the securing rod. Gripping tightly onto both door handles he pushed the doors slightly outwards to check that they were moving freely, then swung them closed again. His fingers stayed clenched around the handles, ready for instant action.
The pig jerked to a halt. 'Go, go, go,' was the only shouted order. The rear doors burst open. I counted them out. One out. Two out. I was three out. Four out. I looked up. We were hemmed in on two sides by the pre-cast concrete frontages of two bleak rows of flats, whose dirty and neglected windows looked all the more bizarre and hostile for having their frames painted bright garish colours, totally out of keeping with the dismal greyness of the rest of the scene. A muddy grass verge littered with broken bottles, pieces of masonry and dog shit led up to each row of flats, like a rubbish-strewn sea lapping at a harbour wall. The two blocks were connected by a low-sided, open concrete walkway to our front, blackened by the weather and disfigured by graffiti – an ideal position from which an old car engine could be levered over the low walls onto a passing Army patrol. Two ten-year-olds standing at one end eyed us with hate and disgust. They dashed to alert the occupants of the flats that the SF had arrived.
Running hard, we slithered over the grass and headed for the block of flats on the left, gas-masks restricting breathing, eyepieces beginning to mist over. We crashed through the front door. All I could see was the heaving back of number two as we mounted the stairs. The bare concrete steps were in flights of eight, zigzagging up the central stairwell in alternating directions and connected by small, rough-surfaced landings. Our momentum was halted momentarily at each landing as we lurched around in an acute reversal of direction, wrenching at the rusty handrail to aid our progress upwards. First floor, second floor. No problems. So far so good. I could feel the urgent presence of number four pushing behind me as we approached the target flat on the third floor.
The safety-catch on the Remington came off as I hit the third floor and made for the target door. Number one and number two were already in position at the hinges, waiting for the door to swing open. I squeezed the trigger on the shotgun. The shot hammered through the Yale lock, splintering the wood surround into a thousand slivers. A heavy size-nine boot finished the job and the door crashed open. Number one and number two disappeared inside.
I took up a crouched position just inside the door, ready for the shooting to start. Shouts and screams reverberated around the interior of the flat. A stun grenade went off, the force of the detonation cracking the cheap plaster on the ceiling and walls. I waited for the last blinding flash, then moved deeper into the room. Through the fog I could see shadowy figures. A man and a woman sat doubled on the settee, coughing, vomiting and babbling incoherently.
A gas-mask came towards me, a gloved hand gripped my arm. 'The bastards aren't here.' His voice sounded strangely distorted through the mask. 'We're going for the flat across the landing.' With that he darted past me and rocketed towards the other door, his number two hard on his heels.
I followed fast, the Remington coming up to the aiming position. In a blur of movement the shot hammered the Yale and the door splintered and sprang open. In one fast and practised movement, the two assaulters cannoned into the flat.
I stood near the doorway, covering the entrance to the living room. A bedlam of sound pounded my ears: hysterical voices… Irish accents… the deafening explosions of the stun grenades… but still no gunfire. The bastards have got to be in there this time. For fuck's sake pull the trigger and let's get the job over with.
The earpiece of my Pyephone radio crackled into life. 'All stations. This is Jake. The birds have flown. Endex. Lift off.'
Bastard, I thought, all this pissing about for nothing! The sharp acid of frustration started to well up and corrode my insides. My skull seemed to grow tighter and press in on my brain. The fucking tout had got it wrong. How much was the green slime paying him anyway?
I couldn't stand much more of this, I had to get out of this place.
* * *
Then the frustration of not being able to take out the enemy exploded into a sca
ndal that rocked B Squadron and brought to an end the Regiment's mission to support the fledgling 14 Intelligence Company known as the 'The Det'.
The first incident occurred when four members of B Squadron had gone into a well-known Republican bar in Londonderry for a drink and a quick look around. When they were there they recognized a senior IRA player from source photographs. This made him a legitimate target for an official operation. Trouble was this was not an officially planned lift. This was a spur of the moment recce. Tension about the whole Northern Ireland situation was running sky-high and this was no ordinary IRA player but a known IRA killer – drinking in broad daylight!
Inflamed by their frustration at constantly having their hands tied thanks to bureaucracy and politics, they allowed their impatience to get the better of them. Seizing the opportunity they pistol-whipped him in the car park in an attempt to subdue him so they could get him in the car and drop him off at the nearest SF base for interrogation. But just at that moment all the Republican drinkers happened to stream out of the bar. In the face of a large, hostile crowd the B Squadron men jumped into their car and only just managed to escape before they were surrounded by the mob.
They were traced through their car's number plate and immediately RTU'd. This began to play on my mind. How could the number be traced when the plates were false and changed on a weekly basis? It should have been simple for them to be able to bluff their way out of it unless someone wanted the SAS to take the fall. I was starting to suspect that the higher chain of command didn't relish special forces troops running loose in the region.
The situation only got worse when two Irish members of Seven Troop snapped – in spectacular fashion. These two guys had become sick of simply taking photographs of hardened terrorists when they should have been slotting them. What made it worse was that some of the IRA were regularly raiding post offices and filling their boots full of cash. Tony, a Bogside boy and now a Seven Troop man, had gone to school with some of these criminals, and was now forced to take photos of them living the high life while he and his mates struggled on Army pay. One night it got too much for them. Quite simply, they lost it.
They went out and did an armed robbery on a post office themselves, more to relieve the boredom and frustration than for any serious mercenary desires, and snaffled a load of cash. This was lunacy especially since the Regiment wasn't even meant to be in Northern Ireland!
If it got out that the SAS had been involved in the robbery the reputation of the Regiment would be mud. Besides the usual suspects there was also an unexpected, silent enemy lurking in the background, waiting for their opportunity to attack with the big guns – the senior officers of the British Army themselves. Many of them didn't understand the concept of special forces and couldn't hack that a bunch of renegades and mavericks could achieve what the traditional order couldn't. After the debacle with the bar snatch, Tony and his mates' escapade was the final straw. They were quietly arrested and later jailed although the whole thing was officially hushed up. But of course it signalled the end of B Squadron's time in Northern Ireland, and we were unceremoniously ordered out of the province. At the time the GOC even went so far as to remark that the SAS would never return to Northern Ireland.
He was wrong. All it took was a prolonged killing spree by the PIRA down in South Armagh. In response, on 7 January 1976, Prime Minister Harold Wilson publicly announced that the SAS would be committed to Northern Ireland. At least this time we thought we would be able to put the cameras away and take up our weapons. But some things never really changed. Our hands were still tied by the policy of minimum force and we were given specific orders to 'capture' terrorists, not to kill them.
By 1978 I was back in Londonderry myself operating out of a secret SF base. We spent four months patrolling, setting up ambushes and providing surveillance, but we had only one kill to show for it – an IRA man caught retrieving a hidden weapon, under the muzzles of an SAS ambush team.
Once again the frustration started to boil up. The desire to escape was as primal as that of a spawning salmon trapped downstream by a storm-fed torrent. Then, out of the blue, I got the order to go and see Maurice, B Squadron Officer Commanding.
11
Hong Kong
It was with some degree of trepidation and a vague, elusive feeling of guilt tightening my lips that I approached the OC's office. Why had he called for me? Surely I couldn't be blamed for our recent lack of success. It was the green slime who identified potential targets – we were just following orders. There had been a rumour that the IRA had used a scanner to lock onto our frequencies during an operation and had made an audiotape. Was my voice on the tape? Was I compromised?
I felt sure that I was in for the mother of all bollockings. Four years of bullshit regulations in Northern Ireland was obviously starting to make me paranoid. As I closed the door firmly but quietly behind me, my thoughts became even more paranoid. Was I being singled out as a scapegoat? Was I going to be sacrificed on the altar of political expediency, watched from afar by the hooded high priests of Whitehall?
'Sit down, Sergeant.' The tall, slim figure behind the desk remained firmly upright. Only his head tilted slightly as he scanned the report in front of him, making occasional pencil notes in the margin.
Power play, I thought. Making me wait, creating the impression that his paperwork is more important than me, gives him the upper hand, reinforces his authority. Psychological-warfare tactics. I braced myself for the worst.
'Right.' The OC looked up, giving nothing away. His swarthy features had not yet been washed away by the Belfast rain. He eyed me closely for a moment, then his gaze relaxed into a hint of a smile. 'Pack your bags, Sergeant. You're going to the exotic East!'
* * *
Kai Tak airport is unique amongst the world's major international airports in that it is limited to a single runway. But then that is not surprising. Everything in Hong Kong is restricted, hemmed in and squeezed by the lack of space. Like an overcrowded refugee ship, the country has a population a tenth the size of Great Britain's crammed into a tiny land mass of small islands and mainland territories, in all just two-thirds the size of London.
The concrete stick of runway was clearly visible in the distance as the military transport plane throttled back its engines. I felt a warm tingle of pride when I brought to mind my mission. I was here to professionally train the Special Duties Unit of the Royal Hong Kong Police in anti-terrorism tactics. It was one of the perks of being in the SAS. Our specialist skills were much in demand among security forces throughout the free world.
As we began our final descent, I looked out over a sea churned by a thousand vessels, large and small. Flying fish-finned junks jostled for position with lumbering freighters. Tiny yachts sailed impertinently close to huge ocean-going liners. Nearer to shore, beetle-shaped sampans scuttled along wearing protective belts of old car tyres around their hulls. They wobbled precariously on top of the water, buffeted by every passing swell, their human cargoes sitting unconcernedly beneath the coarse sun-bleached calico awnings.
The fierce sun liquefied the high-rise buildings hedging in the airport. Planes parked up in bays at the side of the runway soaked up the blistering heat like lizards on sun-drenched rocks. This is the life, I thought. Sunshine and training with the Royal Hong Kong Police to help create an elite counter-terrorism unit – the best possible antidote after nearly four years of rain-sodden boredom in Northern Ireland. I was as eager to get into it as a thirsty, callous-fingered labourer striding into a lunchtime pub for a pint of foaming beer. Things were really going my way at last.
* * *
I obviously hadn't yet learned the lesson: beware of over-optimism. The previous training jaunt to exotic places had been considered a jolly too, a bit of R & R after the rigours of operational duties. Little had I known that that trip would nearly cost me my life, that it would prove more dangerous even than Mirbat. We'd taken a C-130 from Brize Norton to Khartoum, then travelled overland to the coas
t just below Port Sudan. We set up camp by the Red Sea, very close to Jacques Cousteau's diving school.
The trip was to last six weeks. It wasn't long before a certain amount of boredom set in, particularly as alcohol was illegal in Sudan. But we soon found a way of solving the boredom problem. One of the lads dug out the Admiralty charts and gave them a closer look. Near to where we were diving was a place marked on the chart as a large square block labelled 'restricted, dangerous'. It was like a red rag to a bull. Further enquiries revealed that it was the site of the wreck of the SS Umbria, a Second World War Italian ammunition ship. We immediately sniffed booty! Ignoring all dangers of unexploded ordnance, we dived in eagerly and quickly located a hold full of unexploded bombs. They were unarmed. That gave us a clue. Further searches uncovered a stash of nose-cone mechanisms – all made out of pure brass. That would do nicely! Back in Hereford, they would bring a tidy sum in scrap.
We then began to focus our attention on the huge propeller: phosphor bronze, worth a fortune, nearly as valuable as gold! The nosecones represented loose change compared to this! We first tried to slice off one of the leaves of the propeller, but abandoned the idea when we had difficulty with the cutting tool. Further exploration revealed a spare leaf, bolted to the side of the cargo hold. Perfect! We quickly unbolted it from its housing and laid it on the ocean floor. We then went back to shore, assembled two dozen Burma Oil drums and freighted them out over the wreck, towing them behind our three Geminis. We lashed the Burmoils together, filled them with water and sank them over the wreck. Having attached the propeller leaf to the Burmoils, we used our airlines to blow water out of the drums, and slowly they began to rise to the surface. In no time at all there were twenty-four Burmoils bobbing on the surface with the huge one-and-a-half ton propeller leaf suspended on ropes underneath.
Soldier I Page 17
