A Breed of Heroes

by Alan Judd

  ‘Edward wants to see you,’ said Tim without looking up from his letter. ‘Turn right and keep on till you reach the end of the corridor.’

  Edward had a partition to himself. There was ample room for his camp-bed and locker. He was gazing dolefully at a street map of Belfast. ‘Hallo, old son, come in and spread yourself about a bit. Better sit on the bed, there’s no room to stand.’ Charles sat rather uncomfortably next to him. Their shoulders touched. Edward looked pensive. ‘Ever thought about leaving the Army, Charles?’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles wondered what was coming next. ‘Quite often, actually. Particularly recently.’

  ‘So have I, old son, so have I. Give anything to be out of here at the moment, quite honestly. Don’t tell anyone, though. Trouble is, who’d want to employ a bugger like me? All very well being Commando trained and Airborne and being clued up on your infantry tactics and all that, but it’s not much use in ICI, is it? The fact that I’m red-hot with a Carl Gustav rocket launcher won’t cut much ice there, will it? Or I used to be, at least. Probably can’t even do that now.’

  Edward was one of those people who were at their most likeable when not trying to assert themselves. He was at heart a simple, nice man, not particularly suited to any job. Charles felt they had something in common in the latter respect, though possibly not in the former. ‘You could claim you’ve had management experience,’ he said. The concept of ‘management’ always made him feel uneasy. ‘Good at dealing with people and that sort of thing.’

  Edward looked reproachfully at him. ‘D’you really think they’d swallow that?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Nor do I. What would you do if you left – be an academic or something?’

  ‘Maybe, if I could. Or journalism, or something like that. Something where other people do it and I talk about it.’

  ‘Wise man. So long as you tell ’em what they’re doing is a load of cobblers you’ll never be out of a job. Let me know if you ever want an assistant, someone to add insult to injury, you know.’ Edward seemed suddenly to recollect that he was the company commander. He stubbed his finger on the map. ‘You’ve seen this, haven’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should have. It’s the map of our area. You’re supposed to have one.’

  It was a large-scale street map shaded green and orange to indicate Catholic and Protestant areas, and unshaded to indicate mixed business areas. Charles looked more closely at it, as though to establish by inspection whether or not he had one. ‘I thought perhaps I should have one.’

  ‘See the sergeant major.’ Edward held up a list of names and addresses. ‘But you haven’t seen this yet, have you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Edward looked puzzled. ‘Where?’

  ‘On Chatsworth’s bed.’

  ‘How the hell did he get one? It’s supposed to be secret. Company commanders only.’

  ‘Perhaps it was another list.’

  Edward seemed relieved. ‘Yes, perhaps it was.’ He stared gloomily at the list. ‘This is what’s so bloody depressing, you see. Not only do we have a larger area than anyone else but we’ve got a list of gunmen and villains twice as long as your arm. I mean look at it. You haven’t seen this, remember. It’s secret.’

  ‘In that case, how are we supposed to identify them?’

  ‘Dunno. Good point, though. I’ll ask the CO.’ He folded the list. ‘God, I hate challenges. Why couldn’t this area be given to A company? They’re always so bloody keen. Anyway, must fight back, I suppose, which is where you fit in. I’m making you sort of acting, unofficial, unpaid second-in-command. Only you mustn’t tell anyone. What it means is that I want you to send in the weekly Intelligence and Community Relations reports and deal with all the odds and sods and also with any PR that comes along – God forbid – that isn’t being done by that queer, what’s-his-name, up in battalion HQ?’

  ‘Philip Lamb.’

  ‘Lamb, that’s it. Queer as a coot, if you ask me. So if you can deal with all that, plus anything else that crops up – you know, complaints and things – it’ll leave me free to concentrate on – er – all the other stuff, tactics and whatever.’ Charles nodded and Edward suddenly became brisk and cheerful. ‘Good. Right. That’s settled, then. S’pose you haven’t been in the ops room yet, have you? Well, when you do you’ll see a wallful of obscene photographs – mug-shots of the villains in the area whom we’re supposed to look out for. Everyone’s supposed to memorise them.’

  ‘Right.’ It was a word that Charles had discovered to be almost indispensable in the Army, so powerfully suggestive of grasp and prompt action that its user frequently escaped further enquiry. When he got back to his partition Tim had gone but Chatsworth was there, sitting on his sleeping-bag with his rifle stripped for cleaning. ‘Have you got a secret list of IRA suspects?’ Charles asked.

  Chatsworth paused in the cleaning, the piston in his hand. He looked shifty. ‘Not necessarily. Why?’

  ‘I just told Edward you had.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you weren’t s’posed to, so I then told him it was probably another list and he seemed only too happy to believe it.’

  ‘Tell him it’s my kit list if he asks.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘I stole it from Nigel Beale. It seemed only fair. He always goes around as though we’re more of an enemy than the IRA. It’s an accountable document so I hope he’ll get into trouble. There is another one in the ops room but it’s an amended version and I’d rather know everyone who’s likely to shoot at me rather than just some of them. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You can borrow it if you like, though.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Chatsworth returned to his cleaning with loving care. ‘How are you off for ammunition?’

  Charles was puzzled. ‘All right. I mean, I’ve got the regulation number of rounds, unless I’ve lost some since this morning. Why?’

  ‘Nothing. Let me know if you need any extra, that’s all.’

  The company area divided naturally into Catholic and Protestant ghettos. The Protestant area was very small, a few streets of back-to-back terraced houses. Their front doorsteps were scrubbed white every day, the kerbstones were painted red, white and blue and models of the disbanded B Specials stood in nearly every curtained window. It was a tight, defiant little area, surrounded by what it saw as the enemy. The streets were mean and clean. It was more British than the Britons, though a government that had disbanded the beloved B Specials – their own reserve police force with whom they felt safe – would never again be trusted. The Catholic area fell into two parts – the old part near the Factory and a new estate some way from it. The streets and houses of the old part were identical to those of the Protestant area, from which they were divided by the Peace Line. They were respectable, though not as stridently clean as the Protestant. Adjacent to the Peace Line there was even one street that was still mixed – Protestant on one side and Catholic on the other, but no one except patrolling soldiers ever crossed the road. In the middle, and not very far from the Factory, was a monastery. It was the only other large building and was rumoured to serve as an arsenal for the local IRA, though it had never been searched because of the popular feeling that would have been aroused. Nevertheless, the Army had access to an observation post on the top of it from which they could survey the Peace Line area. Nigel Beale said that this part of the Catholic community housed the important leaders of the IRA gangs that flourished in the modern estate.

  This had been built after the war as a mixed community, billed then as ‘homes fit for heroes’. It was a series of concentric streets built around a concrete circle of shops, known as the Bull Ring. Gradually, the community had become less mixed as more Catholics had moved in and the Protestants had moved out. One night in 1969 most of those that remained, concentrated in a small area near the primary school, had been moved out by Protestant leader
s, who said they could no longer protect them. The few who had lingered on had soon been persecuted into leaving. Now the school had to be protected night and day by the Army because it included a community hall that had been built by a Protestant, and the IRA had sworn to destroy it. The estate was a violent, rat-infested slum. Long stretches of paving stones had been torn up for use in riots, and manhole covers and drains had been put to similar use. No street-lamps worked, no rent or bills were paid, hardly a house had all its windows complete, and the burnt-out wrecks of cars and barricades littered the streets. There had been frequent riots in the past few weeks and the previous unit had patrolled the area only in Pigs, and then not often. The RUC had not been into the estate unescorted since the troubles had begun.

  About forty children gathered outside the Factory gate that evening for the usual stoning. Charles was in the yard when the first bricks flew over. One hit a Land-Rover bonnet and skidded off on to the wall by which he was standing. He buttoned up his flak jacket and moved away with what he hoped was officer-like composure, one hand behind his back. The children jumped up and down outside the gate, yelling and hurling as much as they could. For a while broken house-bricks rained into the yard and Charles was forced to abandon some of his officer-like composure and shelter behind a Pig. He was wondering about getting into it when he saw the CSM and a snatch squad of six men creep unobtrusively to the gate, open it suddenly and charge out. The bricks stopped and there was a lot of screaming and shouting. Children fled in all directions. In less than a minute the CSM and his snatch squad reappeared with seven of the largest children and dragged them quickly into the Factory. They were aged about twelve to fourteen and their struggles weakened as they got farther from the street. It crossed Charles’s mind that they might be put into bottles on the conveyor-belt – or whatever it was that made the noise – and sent on their way. He unbuttoned his flak jacket and then followed them in.

  Five minutes later he went to the ops room and found Edward, panic-stricken, shouting on the radio to battalion HQ. ‘Alpha Zero, this is Alpha Three. I say again we are being attacked. We are under siege. Over.’

  Back over the radio mush came Anthony Hamilton-Smith’s measured tones. ‘Zero roger, could you tell us a little more? Over.’

  ‘Alpha Three, wait out.’ Edward turned to Charles. ‘Give me details quickly. How many of them? What’s happening? What weapons have they got?’

  ‘Well, there were about forty and the sergeant major counterattacked, capturing seven. They were armed with bricks.’

  ‘Bricks?’

  ‘And they were aged nought to fourteen.’

  ‘Children!’ Edward passed his hand slowly over his eyes. ‘Hallo, Alpha Zero. This is Alpha Three. Reference my last – er – The attack has been repulsed and we no longer require assistance. Over.’

  Anthony Hamilton-Smith was not a man to give way to strong feelings, nor did he try to impress upon others his state of mind, but on this occasion even his voice sounded faintly puzzled. ‘Zero congratulations – very quick work. What about casualties and prisoners? Over.’

  ‘Alpha Three, no casualties, but seven prisoners. Over.’

  ‘Alpha Zero – very impressive – three and a half brace – send them to my location. Over.’

  ‘Alpha Three – er – we’d rather thought of letting them go. Over.’

  ‘Alpha Zero – I don’t understand – why did you take them? Over.’

  Edward pulled a face. ‘Alpha Three – they’ll be with you in figures one-five minutes. Over.’

  ‘Alpha Zero – thank you. Out.’

  Edward turned beseechingly to Charles. ‘What’s the CO going to say when I send him seven kids? He’ll go spare. You know what he’s like, he’ll be expecting ringleaders at least. Where are they now?’

  ‘In the showers being tortured.’

  ‘Tortured!’

  ‘I was joking. The sergeant major’s put them in there because it’s the only empty room.’

  ‘Don’t joke, Charles, it’s bad taste. Take me to them, would you?’

  Edward put on his beret and Charles went with him to the shower-room – so called because of three rusty and feeble sprinklers that projected from one wall. The seven victims were now standing more or less at attention, eyed almost affectionately by the CSM. Their bravado was gone and they looked very young and very frightened. Edward strode in purposefully. ‘Well done, Sergeant Major.’

  The CSM grinned. ‘Sorry there wasn’t more of ’em, sir, but there will be if they try it again tomorrow. I was just telling ’em about the water-torture but I ’adn’t made up me mind who was goin’ to be first.’

  ‘Don’t joke, please, Sergeant Major, I’m in no mood for it. They’re to go down to battalion HQ immediately. Send them in one of the duty platoon’s Pigs.’

  Contrary to expectations, the CO was delighted by the capture. He felt it had got the battalion off on the right foot and would set the tone for future operations. Anyone who made trouble would be sat on: that was the policy. The sooner it was understood around the neighbourhood, the better. All arrested people were to be sent to battalion HQ, where the RUC or, if necessary, the RMP, would deal with them. This included children. Although stoning was too common an occurrence to merit a summons, the children would be held there until their parents came to collect them. That would be an inconvenience that might lead to greater parental control. Furthermore, it had come to his notice that there were rumours of ‘no go’ areas in the city – no doubt press exaggerations – but they had to be taken seriously. He wanted to make it crystal clear that there would be no ‘no go’ areas in his parish. His soldiers would not even understand the meaning of the term, let alone acknowledge the thing if they saw it.

  There were foot and vehicle patrols throughout the area, day and night. In the worst part of C company’s area – the modern estate – the soldiers patrolled at night with blackened faces through the gardens and alleyways, avoiding the streets as much as possible. Meeting the soldiers unexpectedly outside their back doors brought forth some good and holy Catholic oaths from the wives of the estate. It made it difficult for them to signal the approach of patrols by banging dustbins, which was the way the Army was normally heralded. It also made the soldiers a more difficult target for snipers. It was the CO’s idea, and although the Republican press criticised it as being both unreasonably military and deliberately sinister it soon reduced the random violence in the area. Unknown civilian cars were no longer stoned on sight, and even the Army Land-Rovers attracted only the occasional brick from over the rooftops.

  The CO had promised that he would visit every company location every night, and this he did. He clearly thought that his appearance was good for morale, as well as contributing to military effectiveness. In fact, his visits were looked forward to with all the enthusiasm normally reserved for headmasters, and their effect was to deny any hope of autonomy to any commander with whom he came into contact. Edward, in particular, was hardly the man to stand up to the CO, but fortunately his company ran itself without either his assistance, or knowledge; and the CO, once he had issued his general directives, was often unaware of how they were interpreted in practice.

  However, no one in the company could keep from Edward the knowledge that ultimately he would be held responsible for everything that happened. He lived in a fever of anxiety which he passed on to his subordinates in a stream of contradictory and mistaken instructions. What saved him from having to live with the results of his decisions was his failure to notice that they were generally ignored. The process by which this happened was a kind of unspoken conspiracy, tacitly acknowledged throughout the company, which actually did more for company morale than anything else.

  Unfortunately, though, the CO’s concern for his soldiers did not stop at tactics and morale: he also regarded himself as the guardian of the battalion’s moral well-being, with the padre as an uneasy second-in-command. It was an incident in C company that caused him to launch a moral crusade wi
thin a few days of their arrival.

  Charles was with Chatsworth in the ops room. They were each trying to drink an acrid liquid that the Army called coffee. Apart from its bitter taste at the time, it left the drinker feeling for an hour or so afterwards that he had consumed bile. All that could be said in its favour was that it was wet and warm and, sadly, this was sometimes reason enough for drinking it. Chatsworth poured his into the paper sack marked ‘Confidential Waste’. ‘There’s going to be some more gate-thrusting tonight,’ he remarked quietly.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard about it? It’s having it off, you know, through the main gate. The sentries do it.’

  ‘Through the gate?’

  ‘Through the bars.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘The local birds, of course. Who d’you think?’

  ‘But they all look about fourteen.’

  ‘Nice, isn’t it? Though I’m told there are older ones if you prefer them, unless they’ve been spoilt by having it off in bed.’

  Girls turned out to be a problem throughout the battalion’s tour. From the CO’s point of view they were a menace to his young soldiers, whom he liked to regard as virgin. From the soldiers’ point of view they were a forbidden paradise which it was almost impossible to enter but which was sufficiently close to make trying worthwhile. There was also a security risk: three Scottish soldiers had once been murdered after being lured away by girls, and even now the fat, prematurely old women of the new estate occasionally jeered ‘Scots porridge’ at passing soldiers. There seemed to be a great many young girls in the area, many of whom were prepared to risk tarring and feathering, or worse, to secure a soldier-lover who would marry them and take them away. As it turned out, few achieved marriage. Not many were even touched by No. 1 AAC(A), since during their tour the soldiers had no social life and no time off in which to have it. No one set foot inside a pub, no one went to dances, no one went shopping.