A Breed of Heroes

by Alan Judd

  For one moment it looked as though they were going to crush dozens of demons, but then the crowd suddenly scattered like minnows, leaving an empty road. ‘Keep those shields up!’ Nigel shouted at the two soldiers in the back, who had been thrown about so much that their shields had slipped out of place. The Land-Rovers had stopped a few yards past the junction. The only people in sight were some startled Gunners, crouched in doorways behind shields. Sensibly, they were wearing helmets. The CO whooped delightedly. ‘Swing around and block the road,’ he said. ‘We’ll show the buggers.’ The three Land-Rovers lurched round, narrowly avoiding each other, and parked sideways across the road. Behind them, where the mob had been, the A company platoon went in fast and hard. Rioters were fleeing in any direction they could find, mostly into Albert Street. Several had been caught and were being dragged back to the waiting Pigs. Most became very docile once they had been caught and even appeared physically to shrink. On closer examination they appeared to be puny and dirty teenagers, disappointingly ordinary. Charles saw one offer violence to his captor, which was accepted and repaid in kind, with interest.

  The CO was out of his vehicle and striding gleefully round the captured junction. When he saw Charles he beckoned him over. ‘A company have arrested some of your pressmen somewhere back along the Falls. Go and sort it out. We don’t want to ruffle their feathers unnecessarily. In fact, I shouldn’t be telling you this. You should be telling me. Why didn’t you know about it?’

  ‘No one told me, sir.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. It’s your job to find out. I’m not going to keep doing it for you. Get on and sort it out. Don’t stand around here.’

  It took some time to find the captured pressmen. None of the soldiers whom Charles asked knew anything about them. He eventually found them in the boarded-up entrance of a disused shop, where a stocky little corporal stood guard over them. They looked tired but patient. One had a camera. They identified themselves as belonging to a local Belfast newspaper, and were obviously familiar with the routine. It was not clear why they had been arrested, but Charles presumed it was for not being members of A company. ‘It’s all right, they really are press,’ he said to the corporal.

  ‘Been told not to let civilians loose on the streets, sir,’ said the corporal.

  ‘Except the press. They can. Any more you find bring them straight to me.’

  The corporal reluctantly released his charges and went off to rejoin his platoon. The one without the camera looked towards Albert Street. ‘Looks nasty,’ he said. ‘Especially with that tanker in there. It’s going to be an all-nighter.’

  ‘D’you think so?’

  ‘No doubt about it.’ He looked at Charles. ‘You’re new. First riot?’

  ‘First big one.’

  ‘You can tell after a while. You get a feeling for it. This one is bad. There’ll be deaths, I don’t doubt. I wish they’d have them earlier, I do. Get them over by midnight so we could all go home.’ It was getting colder and he turned up the collar of his anorak. ‘What’s this about your CO personally leading the charge that broke up the riot at the junction? Is that true?’

  Charles imagined the headlines, and the CO’s reaction. ‘No. There was a group of youths at the junction and when we approached they ran down into Albert Street. There was no riot.’

  ‘Any arrests?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘Was your CO present?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they know it was him?’

  ‘He was in a vehicle.’

  ‘So he didn’t lead a charge?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bit odd, isn’t it, the CO getting involved like that? Who controls things back in Headquarters?’

  ‘He just happened to be passing.’ Charles did not want to get further involved. He suggested they let him escort them up to near the junction where they could see what was going on.

  ‘I could write it for you now,’ said the reporter. ‘When you’ve seen as many as we have you get to know the pattern.’

  It was now quite dark, except for a lurid, flickering glow that came from the bottom of Albert Street. Charles was told that the CO and his Rover Group had moved on foot to a point a few yards down the street. As he approached he could see the crouched figures of soldiers on each corner and identified the nearest group as the CO’s. They were not, after all, quite in the street. The CO was talking urgently to the RSM about a charge. Charles slipped past them and put his head round the corner, to see what was causing the glow. Less than fifty yards away there was a burning bus wedged broadside across the road. It had been put in position earlier and set alight only in the past few minutes. It burned fiercely, with flames leaping high into the night and dancing on the walls on either side of the street. Already the metal frame of the bus showed through and soon it was silhouetted starkly against the flames. It burned with a continuous crackling roar and it was impossible to see past it. For a few moments Charles stared at the myriad reflections of flame in the broken glass that lay scattered all over the road, until he sensed something pass very near his head. A brick smashed on to the road, closely followed by two more. Whether they were being thrown over the bus or from behind the adjacent walls, it was not possible to say. The way they crashed unseen out of the night seemed expressive of a blind, indiscriminate violence that had nothing to do with anybody. Charles withdrew his head and was then startled by being gripped firmly on the shoulder. For one moment he thought he was being arrested.

  It was the CO, his teeth bared in what Charles decided was a grin. Charles could just see his eyes by the light of the fire. ‘Glad to see my PRO up in the front line. That’s where all good soldiers should be. Want to see some fun, eh?’

  The grip tightened and the CO grinned more broadly. Charles could think of no reply that would be both honest and acceptable, but the CO did not need one. He shook Charles good-naturedly. ‘’Course you do. That’s why you’re out tonight. That’s why we’re all out, including the hooligans who set light to that bus. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do about that. It’s protecting their tanker, isn’t it? That’s obvious. They’ve got it tucked away in a courtyard behind there and they want to keep us out till they’ve finished with it. They’ll be syphoning off the petrol and then maybe wiring it up as a booby-trap. But they’re not bloody going to. We’re going to take it before they start throwing bombs and getting really nasty. And we’re going to do it with a good old-fashioned cavalry charge on shanks’s pony, straight at ’em between the bus and the walls. We’ll jump right down their throats. You and me, Thoroughgood. Chance of a lifetime for you.’ After another affectionate shake he released Charles and shouted across the road at the RSM, who had crossed to the other corner with his party by doubling back round over the Falls, out of sight and out of range of the bricks. The RSM shouted that he was ready and the CO turned to his own party, which now included Charles. ‘Okay?’ he asked. Then, with a boyish grin, ‘Go!’

  There was no time for Charles to consider running away, or not moving, which was his most natural inclination. It was clearly a lunatic escapade but he felt himself in the grip of a collective madness. The CO had already started to run and Charles could not afford to be seen by the others to hesitate. He sprinted along the rubble-strewn pavement towards the conflagration, keeping as close to the wall as possible. It was a hectic, unthinking dash, though at one point when he realised that he was ahead of the others he had the presence of mind to slow down. He kept stumbling on the rubble and several times lurched against the wall, once grazing his cheek. Very soon he was upon the burning bus and the heat hit his face like a prolonged slap. He had no idea what he would do when he got there. The flames had blackened the wall at each side and, though they were not constantly on it, they were continually licking it as though the fire at the centre of the bus were breathing rapidly. Charles hesitated and was pushed roughly aside by the CO who bellowed ‘Charge!’ and ran into the flames by the wall. He disappeared and Charles fo
llowed blindly. There was a moment of intense heat and then he was through. Facing him was a narrow crossroads and a lot of people, who began to run away as soon as they saw the CO. The CO, still yelling, ran after them. Charles followed and even heard himself yelling something incoherent. At the same time a small part of himself felt sufficiently detached to consider the spectacle of the rest of himself following an apparently demented, bellowing middle-aged man after a crowd of people along an Irish street. Fortunately, the CO stopped on the far side of the junction to grapple with a struggling youth, whom he held by the hair. After a couple of seconds he pushed him into Charles, shouting, ‘Arrest him!’ and ran on. Charles and the youth looked at each other, both panting, before the youth ran off.

  For a while there was confusion, with people running in all directions across the junction. There was a lot of shouting. Two youths had been arrested by the RSM’s group and were being frogmarched back towards the burning bus. Very soon there were more soldiers than civilians visible, and the mob retreated down the side roads, leaving the junction to the Army. It took Charles some minutes to realise that they were being stoned from somewhere in the darkness, and he ran, ducking, to a large gate in the wall where there were several other soldiers. Inside was a large yard and parked in it was the petrol tanker. Beside it were a lot of milk bottles, some empty and some half filled with petrol and with rags hanging out of them. The CO and his Rover Group were examining them.

  ‘Caught ’em at it,’ the CO was saying. ‘They were still filling the things when I got here. Got away over the wall, the little buggers. At least they haven’t made a bomb out of the lorry yet.’

  The burning bus was perilously close and the heat could be felt in the yard, so it was decided that moving the bus was the first priority. Charles was trying to hear how this was to be done when he was accosted by the RSM, who was flustered and breathless. ‘Journalists in the Falls. Will you get up and deal with them?’

  His tone could hardly have been more urgent if he had been announcing the presence of Russian tanks, nor less respectful if he were talking to a newly-joined private. Charles looked at him before replying, as though to see if there was something he had misunderstood. ‘Thank you, Mr Bone.’

  ‘Can you get up there right away? They could be dangerous.’

  ‘Don’t worry about them, Mr Bone. They’ll be all right.’ The RSM looked at Charles as though he thought him mad, then turned away without a word. Charles delayed his departure from the yard for a while, and then sauntered out with careful nonchalance. He then ran across the junction towards the bus, which was no longer burning as fiercely. He had almost reached it when there was the sound of breaking glass behind him, followed by a sudden whoosh and a scorching heat up the side of his right leg. He crouched against the nearest wall, clutching his leg, which he found not to be burnt, and looked round to see a pool of fire flaring in the middle of the junction. The flames quickly died, revealing more broken glass, and he realised it had been a petrol bomb. A couple of yards from him a soldier pointed his rubber-bullet gun down one of the side streets and fired. For a moment the flash and the bang were even more alarming than the petrol bomb. Charles could not see what he had fired at, nor whether there was any result. ‘Did you hit him?’ he asked.

  The soldier shook his head. ‘Just making sure they keep their distance,’ he said.

  It was now possible to get between the bus and the wall without danger. On the other side the sense of urgency and danger diminished sharply. Two of A company’s Land-Rovers were parked on the pavement and several soldiers stood leaning against them, talking and gazing reflectively at the almost-gutted bus. An armoured water-cannon – a great lumbering vehicle that Charles had heard about but not seen – began dowsing the flames. Up on the Falls there were more soldiers, including two of B company’s platoons, but little activity. One of the A company Pigs had taken prisoners back to battalion HG and three more prisoners were being loaded into another one. Beside it, a fourth figure was spread-eagled against the wall and was being searched by two soldiers. Charles was about to pass by when he recognised the figure as Beazely’s. For a brief moment he considered passing by none the less but something got the better of him. ‘What have you done?’ he asked.

  Beazely turned his head cautiously, just enough to see over his shoulder. ‘Thank Christ it’s you. Tell them who I am.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve lost my bloody card. My press card. My lifeline. I know I had it on me when I came out. They won’t believe me.’

  ‘We found him in the alley,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘It looked like he was hiding. He was behaving suspiciously. We thought he might be a petrol bomber.’

  ‘I was hiding,’ said Beazely, without a trace of petulance. ‘I was hiding from the petrol bombs.’

  ‘There weren’t any up here.’

  ‘Well, how was I to know that?’

  ‘What made you think there were?’

  ‘I heard an explosion.’

  ‘Rubber-bullet gun.’

  Charles was enjoying himself but felt he shouldn’t be. Beazely was still spread-eagled against the wall, his head bowed. ‘Is he all right then, sir?’ asked one of the soldiers. ‘Can we leave him with you?’

  Charles continued to look thoughtfully at Beazely.

  ‘We did search him, sir. He was clean.’

  ‘All right. Leave him with me.’ The two soldiers left. ‘You can move now if you like,’ added Charles, after a while.

  Beazely straightened himself, though not without looking cautiously around, and rubbed his hands slowly. He looked towards Albert Street, from which bangs and shouts were becoming more frequent. ‘I thought I’d had it when they got me. I thought that was it. Up against a wall and shot as a spy. What’s going on down there?’

  ‘Just a riot.’

  ‘Oh Christ.’ Beazely’s fat red face wrinkled in distress and he took off his glasses and wiped them. ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ he murmured, sounding near to tears. ‘What the hell is anyone doing here? Why don’t they all go home so we could just do local boy stories and council meetings? What’s all this fighting going to do for anyone?’

  He replaced his glasses awkwardly and they both stared at a sudden increase of activity on the Falls. A huge digger, or lifter or crusher – it was not clear what it was – was making for the bus in Albert Street. It was a famous and much-loved vehicle known throughout the Army in West Belfast as Scoopy-do. It had vast wheels, jaws at each end and made an impressive noise. It was driven by a diminutive, pale-faced Sapper armed with a Sterling, looking for all the world like a chirpy sparrow on the back of a dinosaur. Charles and Beazely followed it to the top of Albert Street. The burning bus had been extinguished. Its charred and twisted skeleton smoked and hissed. The nearby walls were thoroughly blackened and the roads were very wet. With a great revving in its belly and a lowering of one set of jaws, Scoopy-do charged the bus. It hit it at one end and pushed it round in the street with a maddening screech and scream of protesting metal until there was a large enough gap for a waiting Pig to pass through. But the Pig continued to wait, respectfully it seemed, until Scoopy-do had disengaged from its victim and then itself proceeded through the gap. On the other side of the junction below the bus figures could be seen moving against the light of petrol bombs. A bevy of photographers, cameramen and reporters was following the Pig and Scoopy-do down the street. ‘I’d better go down there,’ Charles said.

  Beazely was aghast. ‘What about me?’

  ‘You can come if you like.’

  Beazely’s face was screwed up in anguish. ‘I can’t go down there. You know I can’t.’

  There were renewed bangs and shouting. ‘Up to you,’ said Charles with a nonchalance he was far from feeling. A prisoner, yelling and kicking, was dragged past the bus by two soldiers and bundled into the back of a Pig. The incident was avidly filmed by the waiting cameramen.

  Beazely grabbed Charles’s arm. ‘Look, we
’ll do a deal. I’ll wait here and you go there – which you’ve got to do anyway – only you can take my camera, take a few action snaps, and come back and tell me what happened. Firsthand account, you know. You’d do it much better than me anyway because you know what everything’s called. And I’ll pay. I’ll pay well.’

  Having Beazely out of the way was a chance not to be missed. Charles quickly overcame his instinct to refuse. ‘Okay, but no photos. I can’t do that. No money either. It’s not allowed.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Regulations.’

  ‘No, all right, but why no photos? It’s too easy. It’s got a built-in flash, look. You just click it and bob’s-your-uncle.’

  ‘Not allowed. Regulations.’ Military law was bound to be beyond the comprehension of a mere civilian, requiring, as it did, no obvious reason or justification. Beazely was in no state to argue. He slunk thankfully back round the corner and lit a cigarette. Charles headed down past the bus, surreptitiously fingering for the umpteenth time the butt of his pistol to check that he had remembered to load it. His boots crunched glass as he passed the blackened and water-soaked area of the bus. There were more soldiers at the junction than when he had left it but no journalists. A Pig stood in the middle of the crossroads pointing down a dark side street from which came noise and missiles enough to indicate a sizeable crowd. The Pig acted as a focus of attention, and stones, bricks, bits of drain and guttering rained steadily upon it. The soldiers were crouched at the sides of the roads, some carrying shields but none wearing helmets.

  Charles discovered the entire press corps in the yard with the tanker. The CO and his party were still there, and all were watching Scoopy-do as it sniffed around the tanker. Its headlights were on, as were those of the tanker, and this made it look even more like some prehistoric creature sizing up its prey as it lurched from spot to spot. The tanker was still almost full and the brakes were seized on. Eventually, after an energetic altercation between the Sapper driver and some soldiers, a wire was connected to the front of the tanker and, with a great growling but no more apparent effort, Scoopy-do began dragging it out of the yard. Its jammed tyres left a lot of rubber on the ground. After considerable shunting and manoeuvring, including renewed altercations, it was got out of the yard and into Albert Street, up which it was dragged like a great yellow carcass towards the Falls. Photographers and cameramen followed it all the way, holding lights for filming as they ran along.