by Alan Judd
Sitting at his desk in Colin Wood’s office the next morning Charles feebly pretended to be busy. He copied Philip Lamb’s list of names and telephone numbers from one book to another, then kept both. Philip had also established a card index and Charles sorted it twice without altering it. He drank several cups of instant coffee, without tasting any of it, which was probably an advantage. Fortunately, the adjutant really was busy and had no time to notice anyone else. There were, however, two telephone calls for him. The first was from an unknown major at the PR desk at Headquarters, telling him that he should come up for a briefing, saying that they would all be delighted to see him and adding that, before they ‘went firm’ on anything, could he help out a TV team that afternoon. They wanted to do a feature on how soldiers spent their off-duty time. Charles asked the CO, who said, ‘All right, so long as they don’t take up more than half an hour of the Ackies’ kipping time and so long as they don’t interview anyone. I hold you responsible.’ Charles then rang Edward, who said that the Factory was full enough already without half of Hollywood swarming all over it, but agreed to put a dozen soldiers at the film crew’s disposal when Charles implied that the CO was keen on the idea.
The second call sounded at first like savage interference on a waterlogged line. After a while it became clear that a human being was responsible for the noise and a little while after that Charles distinguished the word Beazely. He greeted him with barely more enthusiasm than he felt. There was more crackling, during which he distinguished the word helicopter. A minute or so of questions and answers established that Beazely believed he had been promised a ride over Belfast in a helicopter. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t any helicopters,’ said Charles.
‘Not you, Charlie, the Army. They’ve got plenty. Use one of theirs.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
Charles snatched at the nearest reason. ‘They don’t do low-level flights over the city.’
‘One went right past my window this morning. Woke me up.’
‘They must have been looking for a car or something. They only do it then.’ It did not sound very convincing. Weariness lessened Charles’s scruples. ‘Anyway, all the helicopters are on border patrol duty today.’
‘What about the one outside my window?’
‘Except for those with urgent operational tasks.’
There was a pause. He could imagine Beazely lighting a cigarette. ‘Get me on one of those then. The border’s better than nothing.’
‘But there’s nothing to see.’
‘That’s the point. There’s a story in that.’
‘Well, I can’t do it. It’s out of our area. Ring Headquarters. They’ll fix it for you.’
‘They won’t. They know me. Come on, Charlie, you must have something. I mean, a report on the incidence of flat feet would do. My news editor’s going crazy. If I don’t feed him something for tomorrow he’ll kill me.’
Beazely sounded seriously distressed. One or two of Charles’s stray scruples came wandering back. After all, he might have referred to the possibility of helicopter rides, in a general sort of way. ‘How about a feature on soldiers’ leisure activities?’
Beazely snorted, causing the telephone to crackle horribly. ‘I did that last week. They didn’t print it.’
‘Well, do a follow-up. Jazz it up a bit. There might be a new angle.’
‘What sort of new angle?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the journalist. I’ll take you to a terrible place where they live, if you like. Something worse than you’ve ever seen. Bring a camera.’
Beazely eventually agreed. He could think of nothing better to do, that was all. It was better to be doing something than sitting around in the hotel getting drunk and frightened.
When Charles arrived at the Factory that afternoon there was a large hire-car parked by the gates. Standing with their hands above their heads and their faces to the wall were three men. A rifle was trained on them from the sentry sangar opposite. Charles got out of his Land-Rover and approached the sangar with a growing unease.
‘Can you identify these men, sir?’ said the sentry’s voice. From close to, his face was just visible.
‘No, I can’t,’ said Charles. ‘At least, not at the moment. Who do they say they are?’
‘They said they’re television blokes.’
‘Well, that’s who they are, then. They’re expected. Did no one tell you?’
Even in the darkness of the sangar the sentry’s expression could be seen to be disgruntled. ‘No one told me, sir.’
‘Did you ask for any identification – press cards or anything?’
‘No, sir.’
Charles started to walk towards the men. ‘You can lower your rifle now.’ The sentry reluctantly withdrew the barrel. Charles introduced himself and apologised. They seemed to take it in good part and even smiled when he asked if they’d been there long. Long enough, it seemed, for their arms to ache. One man, large and bearded, soon produced a camera from his car and another, short and balding, produced recording equipment. The third man was beautiful. He was of medium height, slightly built, with wavy blond hair, strikingly blue eyes, a tanned complexion and a very friendly smile that displayed small even teeth. He wore an expensive light raincoat with wide lapels, belted tightly at the waist. He was the only one of the three unencumbered by equipment. He was Jonathan Kingsley, a name well known from television documentaries. ‘It’s quite all right,’ he said to Charles as they shook hands. ‘You really must not worry.’
‘Thought the car might have a bomb in it,’ said the sentry as he opened the gates. ‘Stop all cars. Major Lumley’s orders.’
Jonathan Kingsley smiled disarmingly at him. ‘A bomb? With us in it?’
‘Edward Lumley is rather enthusiastic,’ said Charles. ‘He’s the company commander.’
Jonathan Kingsley smiled again, looked straight into Charles’s eyes, his head bent to one side. ‘Sounds exciting. Hope we can meet him.’
Charles escorted them into the Factory and upstairs whilst they explained what they wanted to do. He had to leave them outside the ops room as the CO had said that no journalists were to be allowed in any ops room anywhere. He found Edward sitting on the map-table, eating an apple and discussing rugby with the CSM. His face fell when he saw Charles. ‘Oh Christ, you here? You haven’t brought them with you, have you?’
‘They’re just outside the door.’
‘I don’t have to meet them, do I?’
‘It might look odd if you don’t. You don’t have to say anything, except hallo. They’re not going to interview anyone.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’ Edward jumped off the table and bounced his apple off the wall into the waste-paper bin. ‘What do they want, then?’
‘Just a couple of minutes’ film, that’s all. They’ve done the rest of the programme. This is just background for the commentary.’
When introduced to Jonathan Kingsley, Edward behaved like a bashful and tongue-tied schoolboy. He had to be prompted into revealing the whereabouts of the leisure activities they were to film.
‘He’s sweet,’ said Jonathan Kingsley, whilst Edward was off finding his beret. ‘I expected something far more butch from the AAC (A).’
As they were climbing the stairs to the next floor Edward tugged at Charles’s elbow. ‘What’s his name again?’
‘Jonathan Kingsley.’
‘Christ, yes. Seen him on the box. You want to watch him.’
‘Why?’
‘Queer. You can tell by the way he shakes your hand. He squeezes it first then goes all limp, waiting for you to squeeze.’
‘Is that what queers do?’ asked Charles.
Edward frowned. ‘What? No. How would I know? Thought you’d know all about it – Oxford and all that. It’s just what I’ve heard, that’s all.’
They found a dozen soldiers sitting in the canteen with their weapons, helmets, flak jackets and respirators. They stared sullenly at the new arriva
ls. Jonathan Kingsley turned to Charles. ‘Surely this isn’t how they spend their leisure time?’
Charles turned to Edward. ‘Why are they in battle order?’
‘They always parade with their kit and their weapons.’
‘Parade?’ The most delicate of frowns creased the smooth skin of Jonathan Kingsley’s forehead. ‘Have they paraded for us?’
Edward looked exasperated and his face puckered. Things always seemed to go wrong. ‘Well, you wanted to film them, didn’t you? Here they are.’
‘We wanted to film them doing whatever they do when they’re off duty. We didn’t want them to do anything special for us.’
‘They’re usually asleep when they’re off duty.’
‘They sometimes play volleyball,’ said Charles.
Jonathan Kingsley’s frown faded. ‘Oh, that would be lovely. Volleyball would be very nice.’
Edward turned to the soldiers. ‘Take your kit off and go to bed. Pretend to be asleep. Stay there till you’re called. Then get up and play volleyball.’ The disgruntled soldiers filed out. ‘Saves disturbing the ones who are really sleeping,’ Edward added.
As they were preparing to film, Edward tugged again at Charles’s sleeve. ‘A word of advice, Charles.’ Charles was unsure at first whether Edward wanted to give it or receive it. ‘These press people, you must be firmer with them. No good being vague. They don’t know their arses from their elbows most of the time. Must get a grip.’
The soldiers were duly filmed in feigned slumber in unfeignedly crowded conditions. While they changed for volleyball Edward excused himself, claiming he was busy. A desultory game was then filmed in the Factory yard, partly from the roof and partly from ground level. Jonathan Kingsley was pleased. It had the right flavour, he thought. The lacklustre nature of the game could be explained by the tiredness that came from the night vigils. Charles was summoned away at one point by a corporal who said that a man had presented himself at the gate, claiming to be a journalist there by invitation. When he went to the gate, Charles was told by the sentry that the man had been invited in by Edward some fifteen minutes before. Charles again climbed the stairs to the ops room, this time with a sense of foreboding. He was aware of the change in atmosphere in the ops room even before he entered. There was the same old radio mush and cackle but something livelier and jollier had been added. There was even laughter. The first thing he noticed was that everyone had a can of beer. Then he saw Edward sitting on the map-table, swinging his legs and talking to Beazely. Beazely was also sitting on the map-table, as tousled and red-faced as the night before, with his glasses askew. He threw Charles a can of beer as he entered. ‘Have some, Charlie. It’s on the rag.’
Edward jumped off the table. ‘Charles, old man, you should’ve said there was someone else coming. Poor bugger was nearly turned away at the gate, beer and all. Must say, he’s a great improvement on that other bloody pansy.’
Beazely grinned, with just a trace of awkwardness. ‘Thought the boys might like a drink, Charlie.’
‘Don’t worry about him being in the ops room,’ Edward continued. ‘He’s too short-sighted to see anything. He said so.’
‘True.’ Beazely nodded impartially. ‘This is a great place, Charlie. Terrific atmosphere, if only I can get it over. Troops living in worse conditions than IRA prisoners. It’ll go down a treat back home. Something to kick the government with. Might even lead to improvements, you never know.’
‘They can move the prisoners in here and us into the Maze any time they like,’ said Edward. ‘Nice cosy little cell would just do me.’
‘Edward’s been telling me about the screwing through the gate. Can I interview the man concerned?’
‘No,’ said Charles. ‘The CO would go up the wall.’
‘Oh, come on, it’s great human interest stuff. Something for the technically-minded too, from what I saw of that gate.’
‘It would compromise the girls. Soldier-lovers. We’d have tarrings and featherings. Bad for community relations.’
‘Can I take a picture of Edward, then?’
‘If you like, but what for? It’s not quite the same thing, is it?’
‘What d’you mean by that?’ asked Edward.
‘No particular reason,’ said Beazely, fortunately preventing Charles from having to reply to Edward. ‘Might want to use it some time, that’s all. I’d clear it with you first, of course.’
‘All right.’
Edward made a show of reluctance. ‘Well, if the PR officer says so I suppose I’ll have to. Queen and country and all that.’ He straightened his jersey and put his beret back on. ‘Bloody funny thing for a professional soldier to have to do, all the same. Shall I put my camouflage smock on? Looks a bit more warry.’
Charles was still uneasy at the thought of Edward and Beazely doing anything together. It seemed to be a recipe for trouble. ‘Why not do it when there’s more sun?’ he said. ‘The picture will come out better.’
‘No time like the present,’ said Edward briskly.
‘You’re still living in the age of box cameras,’ said Beazely.
A few minutes later Jonathan Kingsley appeared at the door with his crew. ‘Thank you, Charles, that was fine. I think it’ll look good. The right ambience, you know?’ His blue eyes flickered from Charles to Beazely, who was still sitting on the map-table.
‘He’s got special clearance from Headquarters,’ said Charles. ‘He’s doing a feature.’
‘Really? Dreadful man, isn’t he? Charles, may I have your number? We’d like to use you again, if that’s all right.’
Charles gave him the number. ‘I’m sorry there was so little scope today. If I had more notice I could arrange something better.’
Jonathan Kingsley smiled directly into Charles’s eyes and touched him lightly on the elbow. ‘Don’t worry. It was fine. Be seeing you again.’
The following day Beazely’s paper carried a long article headed, ‘Cool Major Who Lives With Bomb’. The centrepiece was a fuzzy photograph of Edward looking tough and determined, an effect heightened by the fact that his beret was crooked. The article described how Major Edward ‘Buster’ Lumley and the men of his company calmly lived above a huge landmine, which was concealed in a tunnel beneath the Factory. ‘Top-grade Intelligence sources’ had apparently described it as ‘the largest IRA bomb ever – three tons or more of explosive’. Edward was the quiet, gentle, intelligent, perceptive, tough man who had been especially selected to take over one of the worst areas of Belfast. He had won not only the esteem of his own – also especially selected – men but also the confidence and friendship of the locals, who sensed in him an understanding, fair-minded, no-nonsense community leader. The article was attributed to Beazely.
Charles’s day had started well, in that he had been able to have a bath. The fried breakfast was hot for once and the tinned tomatoes were quite soft. The discovery of this article spoiled everything.
‘You’ve started with a bang,’ observed Tony Watch. ‘Surprised the PR people allowed it, let alone the CO.’
‘They weren’t asked,’ said Charles. ‘They don’t know anything about it.’
‘You took a chance, then.’
‘I wasn’t asked either.’
‘This bloke Beazely did it off his own bat?’ Tony whistled. ‘Shit’ll really hit the fan now. Better put your helmet on.’
When Charles reached his office the adjutant said, ‘The CO wants you.’
‘Reference the article?’
Colin nodded. ‘Not pleased. Someone let you down?’
‘Looks like it.’
The CO was the only person to have a room to himself, though Anthony Hamilton-Smith was rumoured to have one somewhere. When Charles entered the CO was sitting at his desk, writing. ‘You’ve been a bloody stupid officer,’ he said. He continued writing. Charles was trying to think of an appropriate reply when the CO stopped writing and looked up again. ‘Just had breakfast, have you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
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br /> ‘Think yourself lucky you’re not on the boat home. If it weren’t for me you would be. I had my breakfast hours ago.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t keep yes-sirring me, I’m telling you. Know where I’ve been since I had my breakfast?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’ve been up at Headquarters, fighting for your life with the general. He wanted your guts on a plate. Know why?’
‘The article, sir.’
‘’Course you do. Unbelievably crass though the whole thing is, I couldn’t believe that you wouldn’t realise it yourself when you saw the thing in print. That’s how I saved you from being sacked, sent home in disgrace. I said you were new to the Army and to PR, that this was your first mistake and will definitely be your last. I stuck my neck out for you. Which is more than the Guards CO did for his PR officer. D’you know about that?’
‘No, sir.’
‘This man Beazely visited two units yesterday – us and the Guards. He obviously wrote his story out of what he gleaned from each. The Guards PR officer is on his way home at this instant. It’s thanks to me that you’re still here. What’ve you got to say for yourself?’
‘As far as I’m aware, sir, I didn’t –’
‘I know, I know, Edward Lumley’s almost as much to blame as you. But that’s not the point. You’re there to make sure he doesn’t shoot his mouth off. And that includes your own. As it is, you broke every PR rule in the book. You talked in general terms about the situation here, you emphasised personalities, you spouted all this rubbish about special selection – which will be believed, you know, despite denials, and could do enormous political damage – and you made the most elementary and crass security blunders. The information about that tunnel came from a high-grade Intelligence source that is now prejudiced by your foolish disclosures. I can see you weren’t responsible for the nonsense about the Guards battalion being equipped with special mining tools for digging us out of the debris, but that’s about all. The general’s furious, you know. He was told about all this by London at five o’clock this morning and he had me up there within an hour. You can thank God I’m a lenient man.’
