A Breed of Heroes

by Alan Judd

  Charles and his wireless operator stayed close to the barrier but were in a good position to see the parade. The attitude of the watching crowd with regard to the soldiers was probably intended to be one of contemptuous indifference, as one might regard an uninvited guest whose presence one disapproved of but with whom it was useless to argue because he had no conception of good manners, except that the Irish were unpractised at appearing indifferent and the effort plainly showed. Charles asked four people who Seamus Murray was and why he was remembered, but got no answer from the first three. The fourth replied curtly that Seamus had been murdered by the British in 1942. Charles, who still lacked cynicism, retreated in discreet and apologetic silence, only to discover much later that Seamus had been hanged for the murder of two policemen.

  The trouble started when the main body of the procession had already passed the barrier. The first Charles knew of it was when a lot of bricks and stones dropped out of the sky. Within seconds the spectators near him had scattered and reformed, armed themselves with rubble and were hurling it mightily back over the barrier. Charles ran over to the barrier and saw a mob of youths on the Protestant side about twenty yards along the street throwing everything that came to hand. Most of Tim’s platoon had been concentrated on the parade side of the barrier and the Protestants had obviously concealed themselves and their ammunition behind the houses in their own territory. Both sides were shouting and screaming and both were increasing by the second. The television cameramen and press photographers who had been following the parade had run back with the Catholic reinforcements and were whirring and clicking enthusiastically, which inspired all the combatants to still greater efforts.

  Tim was at the barrier looking pale and harassed. Quite a few bricks were falling short and bouncing and skidding off it. Charles looked at Tim and was reminded of himself when he had been guarding, or failing to guard, the getaway car. ‘What are you going to do?’ he shouted.

  ‘I’ve sent a sit-rep,’ shouted Tim.

  ‘Can’t you stop it?’

  ‘How the hell can I?’

  ‘Have you asked for reinforcements?’ He did not hear Tim’s reply because they were both ducking and weaving like hard-pressed boxers. Reminders of his night in the cul-de-sac were getting ever more vivid. He went to where his wireless operator was crouched by the sangar, called up his own platoon on the radio and, finding they had not been deployed, ordered them down. He then heard Edward on the air frantically asking Tim for more details and not getting them.

  Meanwhile the stoning had worsened. There were now about fifty youths on the Protestant side and at least twice that number on the Catholic. Tim’s soldiers in between were facing both ways, taking cover by the barrier or to the flanks of it. There was no need to keep the mobs apart since their own efforts did that but neither was Tim making any attempt to quell the trouble. His NCOs were looking to him but he was huddled with his wireless operator and doing some sort of adjustments to his set. Charles felt he could not take charge of Tim’s platoon and had no clear idea what he would tell them to do if he did, except to attack the rioters. As the bricks crashed and screeched off the corrugated iron sangar he wondered how soon they would become petrol bombs. Already for each side the cowering soldiers had become targets. The press kept to the fringes on both sides of the barrier, trying to photograph every brick and exposing themselves to more risks than the soldiers.

  Charles did not often feel strong emotion at the sight of Sergeant Wheeler but his appearance and that of the platoon on the Protestant side of the barrier in Land-Rovers and Pigs came as a profound relief. Sergeant Wheeler, wearing his helmet and carrying a baton, ran over to where Charles was sheltering. ‘Which side d’you want us to take, sir – both of ’em?’

  Charles looked across at Tim to see whether he was doing anything and this time caught his eye. Tim’s momentary glance did not even show recognition let alone indicate any form of action. Suddenly one of the barrier sentries, who had done as he was told and remained in an exposed position facing the Protestants, keeled over clutching his face, blood streaming out between his fingers. His rifle clattered to the ground beside him. It turned out that the right side of his face had been opened up by a sharpened penny thrown by a boy of about twelve. ‘Get the Prots,’ Charles told Wheeler. ‘Drive them back. Arrest as many as you can.’

  The platoon was already organised into snatch squads. With the example of the wounded soldier still on the ground behind them they debussed and attacked the mob from three directions. The action was pursued with what, in military terms, would have been described as vigour and purpose; according to the victims and some of the press it was pursued with a vicious and unmerited violence; according to other sections of the press it was firm, pre-emptive action. Whatever the opinion of it, the result most closely resembled dropping a ferret into a rabbit-pen. Most of the youths escaped but five were caught. A press photographer had his camera broken during the brawl which occurred when one of the arrested youths tried to escape by lashing out at the soldier who had arrested him. He had bloodied his captor’s nose and had partially freed himself before his captor and another soldier laid into him with their truncheons, after which he was half-dragged and half-carried to the waiting Pig. The mob was dispersed as quickly as it had formed and very soon all that was left in the street were Charles’s soldiers, a shoal of press and a great deal of rubble and broken glass.

  On the other side of the barrier Tim’s platoon sergeant had wisely refrained from action and was allowing the procession’s own stewards to persuade the crowd to disperse peacefully. Tim seemed to have recovered his power to act and was moving about amongst his own men. He seemed deliberately to avoid Charles for some minutes but then approached him and said brusquely, ‘Isn’t it time you cleared your men out? It’s my patch, you know.’

  ‘They’re going soon,’ said Charles. ‘To take the prisoners back. It might be an idea if some of them hang around in case there’s more trouble.’

  ‘I can look after that, thanks.’ Tim’s manner was that of an offended minor official. He turned away as soon as he had spoken. He was still very pale.

  There were now only soldiers, the inevitable bystanders and a few disconsolate press, most of whom had been unable to get near enough to the trouble when it was at its most picturesque. The procession had moved on and the streets were blessedly quiet. Then there was the familiar whine of Land-Rovers driven at high speed. Edward’s was the first in view, closely followed by one from battalion headquarters containing, it turned out, Philip Lamb. They stopped abruptly, a door was flung open and Edward ran, bent double, across the littered street to where Charles was standing by the barrier. He was wearing his helmet and had his pistol in his hand. He looked neither to his right nor to his left. The soldiers, the bystanders and the press all stared. Edward pushed Charles back into a corner of the barrier. ‘Hard targets!’ he said urgently. Charles was too surprised to speak. Edward joined Charles in the corner. Their helmets touched. ‘What’s happening? Where are they all?’

  Charles tried to ease himself out of the corner. ‘Nothing’s happening. It’s all over. They’ve all gone.’

  Edward turned with his back to the wall and allowed his gaze to traverse ninety degrees, which included his own Land-Rover and all of Charles’s platoon and their vehicles. He pointed his pistol at everyone as he looked. ‘Who are all these people?’

  Charles looked to where Philip Lamb was talking to a group of pressmen. ‘They’re mostly press.’ Seeing that Edward still stared suspiciously at them, pistol in hand, he added, ‘I’d put it away, if I were you. It might inflame them. They could photograph you.’

  Edward straightened and put the gun in its holster. ‘It sounded like the biggest Peace Line flare-up ever. What happened?’

  ‘The Prots started stoning the marchers and the marchers retaliated. We dispersed the Prots and arrested five.’ Charles felt quite proud and was prepared to give a detailed account.

  ‘Great
stuff,’ said Edward. ‘Where’s Tim?’

  ‘The other side of the barrier, I think.’

  Edward, now the confident and battle-hardened commander, adjusted his holster and strode away, casting a proprietorial glance around the area. Charles noticed Chats worth for the first time. He was standing a few yards away kicking disconsolately amongst the rubble. ‘I always miss it,’ he said petulantly. ‘My platoon’s always resting or on guard when there’s trouble. I’m not even supposed to be down here myself except that Edward’s flapping around at about forty thousand feet and hasn’t noticed. Was anyone killed?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘So it wasn’t much then?’

  ‘Not by your standards.’

  ‘Injuries?’

  ‘One of Tim’s platoon had his face opened up.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Only what you’re kicking.’

  ‘All pretty tame then. Wish I’d been here, all the same.’

  It was Philip Lamb’s job, as PRO, to deal with the press. It was something he took very seriously, not only because it gave him a role. He had been talking earnestly to a group of them for some minutes before hurrying over to Charles. ‘Charles, can you give me a quick outline of what happened? They want to interview me for ITN.’ He straightened his beret unnecessarily. ‘I gave them an idea based on what I’d heard over the radio, only I didn’t tell them that. I must say, it sounded pretty bad. I told them about a thousand.’

  ‘A thousand what?’

  ‘People. Rioters. You see, most of the press got here after the worst of it was over when there were just a few stone-throwing kids. They got some good film of the arrests, though. Good work on Tim’s part. But how did it start? What was the worst like?’

  ‘That was the worst.’

  ‘Charles, don’t be unhelpful. You know you only see a very small part of it when you’re on the ground. And don’t play things down. We must make the most of our successes. This is very good PR for the Army, not just the battalion, averting a major Peace Line clash.’ He brushed the hair back from his ears, glanced in a Land-Rover wing-mirror and brushed some forward again. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I would let you speak to them since you were here, but the CO has said that I’m the only one who’s allowed to be interviewed apart from him, and even then I’ve got to be there. Not that you watch much television, do you? How many arrests were there?’

  ‘Five, but no deaths.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No one was killed.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Any injuries?’

  ‘One of the Ackies had his face very badly cut.’

  ‘Did they get a picture of it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. One of the photographers had his camera broken.’

  ‘Who by? Not by us, I hope? Is he all right? Which one was it?’ In looking anxiously about, Philip noticed Edward standing in the midst of a group of pressmen, talking authoritatively into several microphones. Two cameras were whirring. ‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s not supposed to do that. He’ll probably say something awful.’ He rushed over to the group.

  The event was the main story on the television news that evening. It was said that what could have been one of the most serious outbreaks of intersectarian violence since the troubles had begun was narrowly averted by the personal intervention of Major Edward Lumley and by prompt action on the part of his company. There was film of Charles’s platoon dispersing the ‘hard core of upwards of a thousand rioters’, followed by an interview with Edward in which he steadfastly refused to talk about his part in the affair but described how it had started, and reiterated the Army’s firm determination to keep the Peace Line intact at all costs. For a few seconds Philip Lamb’s excited face filled the screen, his lips moving without sound, and then there was a shot of Chatsworth kicking the rubble with a comment from the reporter about those for whom riots were all part of a day’s work. Finally there was an interview with two local politicians, one Protestant and one Catholic, in which the Army was criticised on the one hand for allowing the trouble to start and on the other for stopping it too brutally.

  The CO was delighted, and on his rounds that evening said that the brigadier himself had telephoned his congratulations for the way the thing had been handled both from the tactical and from the public relations angles. ‘The trouble with this damn war is it’s a PR war,’ the CO said. ‘It’s not a soldier’s war at all, and like it or not that’s the way we’ve got to play it. But if we can keep this up we’ll be all right. Well done, Edward. You did a good job.’

  Edward was buoyant and agreeable for the next few days. Nothing troubled him until Anthony Hamilton-Smith, after a briefing at battalion headquarters, casually mentioned an old plan of the area which had shown a river tunnel beneath the Factory. He couldn’t remember where he had seen it but he had thought it interesting at the time. He liked old plans and maps and things. In fact, he knew someone who had served in Italy during the war and who had been issued, just prior to the invasion of that delightful country, with a copy of an old medieval map which had ‘Here be Dragons’ inscribed across the top. He thought the plan he had seen wasn’t quite that ancient but was getting on a bit. Edward, who shared neither Anthony’s interests nor his phlegmatic calm, immediately saw a danger of a huge landmine being laid beneath the Factory. An exploration party, led by the colour sergeant, went through a trapdoor in the basement floor into a dirty little tunnel that had been pointed out by one of the Factory workers. They emerged with a bundle of old pornographic magazines and the news that the tunnel was blocked at both ends. It was about twenty yards long and there was no sign of a river. It served no obvious purpose. Nevertheless, Edward was unable to rid himself of his fear that explosives could be floated down the underground river, if it existed, and he instituted several more searches.

  However, tunnels remained topical. Charles was lying on his sleeping-bag one night, having just come off radio watch, when he noticed Chatsworth eating a large slice of fruit-cake. Knowing that the composite rations on which they lived included no such delicacy, Charles asked where he had got it.

  Chatsworth grinned. ‘D’you want some?’ He handed over a piece. ‘I found it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In a place I know.’

  ‘Remarkable.’

  ‘In the monastery, actually. To be specific, in the kitchens. I’ve been exploring on night patrol recently, a little freelancing. Don’t go and blurt it out to Edward.’

  ‘You’ll be crucified if you’re caught. British troops invade Holy Places –’

  Chatsworth laughed and slapped his thigh. ‘I know, it’d be great PR, wouldn’t it? Valuable fruit-cake ravaged by British child-killers.’

  ‘But they’d slay you, you do realise that?’

  ‘That’s mainly why I do it. I need the excitement, and there isn’t enough going on at the moment. And I’m very careful – I only take a slice at a time. It’s a huge cake. It’s in the kitchens, which are quite easy to find. There are millions of cockroaches. If you shine a torch the floor is black with them. Also, I think they keep arms down there. There are miles of tunnels which I’ve been exploring and I’ve found these packing-cases where there weren’t any before.’

  ‘They’re probably full of cassocks and candlesticks.’

  ‘In which case you’d store them, wouldn’t you? There’s plenty of room. You wouldn’t hide them in a grimy tunnel full of rats. They’re very heavy and they come from America. If you don’t believe me, come with me.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to participate in your fantasy world.’

  ‘Bollocks, you’re scared. And you’re supposed to be the company Intelligence king. You might be missing the biggest arms find ever.’

  ‘Or a court martial.’

  ‘But that’s what makes it interesting, isn’t it? All generals have to take chances.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Everything, if you’re going to be one, as I am. I’ll pu
t you in my memoirs if you come.’

  Charles did not allow himself to be persuaded there and then, but knew he would agree. As usual with people with nice consciences, he needed a little time to introduce the appropriate excuses. Once properly prepared for digestion, however, there was usually no problem. Two nights later he went out on patrol with Chatsworth and one section of Chatsworth’s platoon. They went to the OP on top of the monastery and then, taking only two of the soldiers – who were only too happy to do a little illegal exploration, as they bore no responsibility for the consequences – they descended into the bowels of the building. Chatsworth led them by a spiral stone staircase that opened off the landing and through a series of corridors and further stairs until they were in a brick-built tunnel with an uneven stone floor. It was almost completely dark but Chatsworth led the way with confidence. Eventually they stopped and stood for some minutes, listening, before he switched on his torch. The light revealed a stack of about twenty oblong wooden boxes.

  ‘There are more now than there were,’ whispered Chatsworth. ‘It would make too much noise to open one, though. Could nick one.’

  ‘They’d be bound to notice. And we’d look pretty stupid if they weren’t weapons.’

  ‘They are weapons.’ Chatsworth ran his fingers over the nearest box. ‘They’re Armalites. I can tell by the boxes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve got one.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘At home. You don’t think I’d be fool enough to bring it out here, do you?’

  Charles had learned not to be surprised by anything Chatsworth said. It was not worth asking him how he came to have an Armalite. They counted the boxes, twenty-two in all, and then made their way back out of the cellar. Once in the street, Chatsworth said, ‘I reckon there’s more down there. I don’t know where that tunnel ends and it’s probably not the only one. D’you fancy going back down tomorrow night to do a proper exploration?’