by Chris Ryan
At that time the situation in Ulster was pretty bad, and almost every day there was news on TV or in the papers of another atrocity. One afternoon not long into the course the daily programme billed a brief on the political background in Northern Ireland, and the way special forces fitted into the fight against terrorism. Before the lecture, nobody seemed to rate the importance of this topic very highly; the afternoon was fine and hot — definitely not the sort of conditions for sitting in a Portakabin classroom — and a couple of the lads tried to skive off on some pretence. But the moment the talk started, everybody was hooked.
The speaker introduced himself as Chief Superintendent James Morrison of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. He was quite an elderly guy, grey haired, grey faced, grey suited, grey all over. Even his voice was grey: a monotone so quiet it was difficult to hear. He perched his arse on the front of the table and spoke without props, notes or gestures; yet what he said had us leaning forward in our seats.
‘It’s war you’re going to,’ he began. ‘It’s war and nothing else, so it is. It’s been going on for twenty-five years, and I’ve been in it all that time. I still don’t understand Northern Ireland, and I never will. But I do believe we’d be doing a lot better if we’d dropped more of the enemy on operations. I wouldn’t send somebody out just to shoot three or four of them; but on specific operations, of which we’ve had knowledge, it would have put a heck of a lot of fear into them if we’d killed a few more. I shouldn’t be saying this to yous fellers but, flip, I am.’
That had us fairly hooked, and nobody moved as he went on to outline the way special forces fitted into the campaign against terrorism, in combination with the green army, the RUC, Special Branch and various other intelligence organizations. He then sketched in the nature and behaviour of the IRA. He described how the original IRA, known as the Stickies, had turned away from violence and become doves. Today’s hawks were the Provisional IRA, or PIRA (in his accent, ‘Payra’). He sketched their organization: at the top, the Army Council, and under that the Northern and Southern Commands — one for Ulster, one for the Republic. The task of the Southern Command was to organize terrorist attacks on the mainland. In the north there were three brigades, sub-divided into small cells known as ASUs, or Active Service Units, which formed the core of IRA activity.
Fragmentation was the name of their game, he said. Each cell probably consisted of only three or four people: a bomber, a shooter, a driver, and maybe one other. Very often they did not know each other; they didn’t even know their colleagues’ names. The intention was that if anyone was caught, it was impossible for him to give anyone else away. Fragmentation also made life more difficult for the informers — or touts — who might squeal on one phase of a job, but would rarely be able to find out about the operation as a whole.
Morrison told us how the players spent their lives targeting policemen, endlessly trying to pick them up as they left work and follow them back to their homes. ‘I tell you — just the other day they targeted one of my officers. I’ll call him John. The man came home from work at eleven o’clock at night. He hadn’t been indoors a minute before a call came from a friend in Special Branch. “Look, John,” says the caller, “close your curtains. There’s somebody in your back garden. Don’t worry — they’re ours. If anyone comes to your front door in the next few minutes, let them in, and they’ll look after you.”
‘Sure enough, more people came. They stayed the night. They told John that some form of attack on him was imminent. They expected it to be a UCBT — an under-car booby trap — and they had people outside ready to grab the bomber. They waited all night, and no one came. Something had spooked them. All the same, John had to move house…’
On and on went the hypnotic voice, telling us about deep hides, concreted over or sealed into houses behind false walls, where quartermasters would store weapons and ammunition for months or even years. We heard of transit hides, less elaborate caches, where one man would deposit a weapon and another would collect it to do a particular shooting. He told us how the IRA staged burglaries to decoy the police into killing areas, and how they themselves would never risk firing a rifle or a rocket from a position that didn’t afford them a clear escape route.
‘There’s another thing as well now: they’re into drugs. I know this won’t really concern yous guys — it’s the business of other agencies — but you’d better be aware of it. The PIRA always needs money, for weapons and explosives and whatever, and, as you know, there’s tremendous money in drugs. So they’re into narcotics too, bringing in drugs from the south, and distributing them on.’
The chief paused, looking round at all of us, and then said by way of summing up: ‘Oh yes, they’re the most cunning bastards on earth. They’re good bastards in their way and, flip, you underestimate those feckers at your peril.’
He stopped, and everyone sat silent. Then a voice from the floor asked, ‘Do you hate them?’
‘Hate them?’ The speaker seemed to reflect for a moment, then his voice grew suddenly louder. ‘Yes, I truly hate them, the murdering, treacherous, lying bastards. I’ve seen one of my young officers cut down by them in the prime of his life. I’ve heard his little boy asking when his daddy’s coming home, and somebody telling him his daddy won’t be getting up anymore, because he’s there in his coffin. When that happens to a family, it’s terrible, and you don’t ever forget it.’
The speaker was staying that night in the officers’ mess in camp, and after the talk he was invited there for a drink. We drove back to Hereford, showered, changed, and piled into the mess for a couple of beers and some polite conversation. With no particular motive — merely to socialize — I asked the chief if by any chance he’d met my father-in-law, who was quite well-known as a GP around his area of East Belfast. It turned out that the two hadn’t come across each other, and there was no connection; but in the long-term that chance contact was to have far-reaching effects.
The brief on Northern Ireland had brought the course into sharp focus, and when we began doing car-drills for VCPs and ambushes, the guys went into everything with new fervour. Reg Brown, our new instructor (himself from the Regiment), drummed into us the fact that when we drove towards a normal VCP, dressed in civilian clothes and in a civilian car, the green soldiers manning the barrier would naturally take us for Irishmen. It was therefore necessary to have all weapons stowed well out of sight, and to let the guys know covertly that we were from the security forces. The way to do this was to keep our ID cards inside our Northern Ireland driving licences, so that when a driver showed his licence the guard would open it up and see the card. Then, if he was properly trained, he would chat for a minute, say, ‘Fine,’ and hand the licence back, and we’d be smoothly on our way. Anyone watching would take us for normal punters.
That was the drill for a normal VCP. But it was also likely, Reg told us, that we would come across illegal check-points, set up by the players in Catholic areas as shows of strength, to demonstrate to the locals that they were in charge. ‘If you see it early enough,’ he told us, ‘spin out and disappear. If you’re already into it, keep calm, drive on, but slow down as if you’re going to stop. Stay in low gear, and make sure your pistol’s to hand in the right-hand door-well. As the guy comes towards you, to ask who you are, wind the window down, grab the pistol and whack him. Then, if there’s no barrier ahead, accelerate hard and use the car as a weapon to hit any other players who may be on the road.
‘If the road’s blocked, start off the same. The driver drops the first guy, but at the same time the passenger starts putting down a massive amount of fire on his side. The two guys in the back debus, go wide, and put down more fire. The front two jump out, move back through the others, and put down rounds themselves. All four of you pepperpot back into a line, and then assess the situation. If you’ve taken out two or three of the players, and there are only four or five altogether, the commander may take the decision to move forward and finish them off. Also, of course, you’ve got y
our radios, and by now you will have called for assistance…’
Much of our training took place in Prescott’s Wood, where everything was pretty realistic. We built OPs by digging in, carefully disposing of the soil, and meticulously roofing the hides with branches, turf, dead grass and leaves so that no sign of disturbance was visible. From those vantage points we had to keep watch on spots like culverts, in which (according to one scenario) a bomb had been hidden, and report any activity that had taken place in the area. We also had to fight our way out of ambushes laid on by guys from the Regiment, who would open the proceedings by throwing a petrol bomb into the road in front of our car.
Often we were out in the countryside, away from LATA altogether. Many of the farmers round Hereford were really on side, and were glad to let us use their land and buildings. Once an arrangement was in place, someone would tell them that if they saw movement round an outlying barn, or in one of their hedges, on a particular day, not to worry; they were to carry on with their normal activities. Our scenario would lay down that some players were using the barn as a transit hide; we’d build an OP in a spot overlooking it, and go to ground there, watching for business to develop. Since much of the land was similar to the ground in Northern Ireland — undulating fields divided by thick hedges — it was ideal for training.
* * *
On top of all this there was a good deal of physical activity. The guys went for their normal daily runs or sessions in the gym, and twice a week an instructor from the Bodyguard Wing took us for unarmed combat. Although quite a small guy, he had a reputation for being able to deck even the biggest lads, and he taught us the holds for disabling people or taking them out. ‘It’s easy enough to kill someone,’ he said cheerily. ‘All you need do is use your hand to push their nose-bone up into their brain. Or you can rip their wind-pipe out. But the best thing in a life-threatening situation is just to break the neck.’ He instructed us to take each other on and learn the moves in slow time, encouraging us to fight dirty by gouging eyes, going for the crotch and so on.
All in all, the course was pretty demanding, but good fun. I felt I was putting a lot into it, but also getting a lot out of it, learning all the time.
Then one morning everything went to rat-shit. We were firing pistols at about ten o’clock when a call came through to the range house, and someone shouted, ‘Geordie, you’re wanted on the phone.’ Puzzled, I went in and picked up the receiver. There on the line was the adjutant’s clerk, calling from camp.
‘Is that Geordie Sharp?’
‘Yep.’
‘There’s a bit of an emergency. The adjutant needs to see you urgently.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. That’s the only message: you’ve got to get right back.’
Christ! I thought, now what have I done? I must be in for a fearsome bollocking.
I looked round for someone to take charge of my weapons, and the nearest guy was Pat Martin. ‘Hey, Pat, I’ve got to head back to the Lines. Will you make sure my weapons and kit-bag go back in the locker?’
‘No problem,’ he answered. ‘What’s the matter? Have you dropped a bollock?’
‘Not that I know of.’ I shrugged and I handed him my pistol, told him my HK 53 was in the hut, and said I’d take the grey admin Sierra.
I drove fast, unable to think of anything I’d done wrong. In a few minutes I was back at camp, parked up and hurrying to the adjutant’s office. When I saw the SSM standing in the room, by the Rupert’s desk, and also John Stone, who’d been best man at my wedding, I knew something was very wrong.
The adjutant stood up awkwardly as I came in: another sign of big trouble. In that warm weather he was wearing his DPMs, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up.
‘Sit down, Geordie,’ he said, waving at a chair, and then: ‘Listen, I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you. Your wife’s been killed.’
‘Oh no!’ I remember I sat forward with my elbows on my thighs, my hands clasped tight together.
‘Yes. We got a signal an hour ago. A bomb went off in a shopping centre in Belfast this morning. It seems to have been an own-goal; the bomber was blown to pieces, but he took out five civilians as well.’
My ears heard the words the adjutant was saying, but my brain hardly seemed to take them in. My mind and body had gone numb. I could not move or speak. I sat and stared at the front of the desk, just ahead of me, as if I had turned to stone.
‘The rest of the course is being informed,’ he went on. ‘We want you to take a couple of days off, to make up your mind what you’d like to do.’
My voice came back in a kind of croak. ‘What happened?’
‘She’d gone shopping. That’s all the information we have so far. She was outside, on the pavement, when the explosion occurred. She was killed instantly. Can’t have known anything.’
‘What time was it?’
‘Just after 9.30.’
‘What about the kid?’
‘He was at playschool.’
‘Thank God for that.’ I put my face in my hands.
‘You’ll need time to chill out,’ the adjutant was saying. ‘There’s no pressure on you to complete the NI course. After this, you may not want to go over there at all. If that’s what you decide, everyone will understand. You don’t have to go on the operational tour. If you’d prefer it, you can go back to the squadron, and we can look for a posting elsewhere. See how you feel in a couple of days.’
‘She was coming back!’ I said bitterly. And then again, before I could stop myself, I almost shouted, ‘She was coming back!’
‘I know, Geordie. Everyone knows that. Everyone’s with you.’ He cleared his throat and went on, ‘As I say, take a couple of days off. If there’s anything you need — help with organizing the funeral — come and tell us. Get it sorted out with the boss and SSM. Now — John can give you a lift home.’
I took a deep breath to get hold of myself, then stood up and nodded to the adjutant. John put a hand on my shoulder and steered me towards the door. Outside, he said, ‘Will I take you back?’ I nodded again, and walked blindly to his car. As he drove I noticed how tanned he was and asked where he’d been. ‘Africa,’ was the answer. ‘Just come back from an exercise in Botswana.’
‘What was it like?’
He began to answer, but I could hardly listen. I realized I’d only asked the question in an attempt to keep my mind off my private horror. I seemed to be short of breath, and had to inhale deeply to steady myself.
At the cottage John came into the kitchen with me and said loudly, ‘Let’s have a brew. Where’s the kettle?’
‘There.’ I pointed. ‘There’s milk in the fridge.’ Then I sat down at the table, staring out of the window, straight into the vegetable garden, mind in a whirl of guilt and remorse. The kettle began to sing, and presently I heard John say something.
‘What was that?’
‘I see you’ve got a bottle of Scotch. Would a quick one help?’
‘No, no. Tea’ll be fine.’
I shivered with cold. When John handed me a mug, I piled three spoonfuls of sugar into it, and as I drank it, I felt a hot flush rising through me.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I said. ‘Why her? Why did it have to be her?’
John shook his head and looked down into his tea. Then, noticing the strange kit in one corner, he said, ‘Whose is that?’
‘It belongs to Tony Lopez, the SEAL guy who’s trying to join the squadron. He’s been staying here.’
‘Oh — that’s the guy who was in the nick with you?’
‘That’s him.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘Terrific. One of the best.’
‘Will he pass selection?’
‘He’ll walk it. He’s fitter than the rest put together, and he’s got most of the necessary skills already. Been in the jungle, for instance.’
‘He must be crazy to leave the SEALs. Train in the sun… all the assets you want… Does
he realize what hard work he’s letting himself in for?’
‘I don’t know. It’s only for a couple of years.’
‘Rather him than me. I dread the thought of walking over those hills with a fifty-five-pound bergen.’ John looked at me and said, ‘You’d better phone Kath’s parents.’
‘In a minute.’
My mind flew to the spacious house in Helen’s Bay — a safe and smart residental resort a few miles north-east of Belfast, on the shore of Belfast Lough — with its big gardens and handsome trees and stunning views of the sea. Kath’s mother always kept the family home immaculate: never a speck of dust, never a cushion out of place. I’d always supposed that this obsession with cleanliness had something to do with the fact that Kath’s father, Den, had been a doctor. Often in the past few weeks I’d wondered what Tim had made of it, dropping bits of food and scattering his toys about the fitted Wilton carpets.
I nerved myself to make the call. Then I said, ‘Better do it,’ and went to the telephone.
A strange voice answered: a man, with a strong Belfast accent.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Sergeant Harris, RUC.’
‘Can I speak to Mrs O’Brien?’
‘I’m sorry. She’s not very well just now.’
‘Doctor O’Brien, then.’
‘Who’s calling?’
