The Nemesis File - The True Story of an SAS Execution Squad

by Paul Bruce

  We looked at each other and shrugged. We didn’t know whether it was true or false but it certainly meant that we could expect no mercy if we ever fell into IRA hands.

  We did not mention the briefing or the newspaper report during our fry-up meal at the cafe but we could hardly wait to reach the safety of our base to discuss everything that had happened that morning. We didn’t really know how the operation would work but hoped that Don did. Benny asked the one question we all wanted answered: ‘How many blokes are we going to have to knock off?’

  ‘Impossible to tell,’ Don replied. ‘It could be just one or two or it may be one every week. Maybe more than that. We just can’t tell. And they’ve no idea either,’ he added, jerking a thumb in the direction of Lisburn.

  He went on, ‘Now listen. We are not going to let this get personal. We have a job to do. We can’t let our feelings get involved. These blokes are killers, intent on killing you and me and as many soldiers and police as they can. It’s going to be our job to get rid of them and nothing else.’

  Before we left Lisburn, Don had been informed in a private briefing that a meeting would be arranged between the four of us and three IRA informers, the ‘Smerfs’ as we decided to call them, as soon as possible. Don didn’t like the idea of working with them but we had no option.

  He said, ‘We are going to have to meet these bastards but I don’t like the idea. We can’t trust them and we mustn’t trust them. There must never be any hint that we are SAS because we are the number-one targets of the IRA. We know the IRA are shit-scared of us but we cannot take any risks.’

  We all nodded. I felt relief that we had Don to lead the unit – someone who had been around, who knew the score.

  That night we went out together for a drink. We had been shown the Protestant areas where it would be safe for us to have a drink without any risk. However, we knew that, on occasions, even the Protestants could turn against us for a variety of reasons. We knew we could trust no one totally because we had seen on television some Protestant yobs, draped in Union Jacks, hurling bricks and stones at British soldiers patrolling the streets. It didn’t make sense to us but it did make us realise that while we were in Northern Ireland the only people we could trust would be ourselves.

  Benny asked Don how many other SAS units were involved in the operation. Don explained, ‘There are always two units out there on the border at any one time.’

  ‘Does that mean they stay there living rough the entire time?’ asked Benny.

  ‘No,’ Don replied. ‘There is a rota system; at any one time two units are always out living rough. Each particular unit stays out for a month at a time then takes two weeks’ rest back at Palace Barracks in Hollywood, Belfast.’

  Before going out, we had had to find the best possible way of concealing our 9mm Brownings. Sticking them in the waistbands of our jeans was useless because they could have fallen out while getting in or out of the car and could be easily seen.

  We decided on a shoulder harness. We cut a slit in our T-shirts and jumpers, leaving a convenient hole under the left armpit. In that way, we could wear the harness underneath the T-shirt but would be able to draw the ‘millie’ – as we called the 9mm Browning – quickly in any emergency. It worked really well; no one could tell we were carrying weapons under our leather jackets.

  After all we had heard that day, we needed a drink. We were anxious to get on with the job and yet apprehensive about what we would have to do. It seemed better to relax, have a good drink and talk about other things.

  While Don went back to the 39th Brigade headquarters, we stayed in the Portakabin and read the papers. The IRA were boasting that during the first seven days of October they had killed two British soldiers and wounded at least sixteen. We were certain it was bollocks.

  Benny quipped, ‘They can say what they like but wait till we get started.’

  Don returned with a briefcase full of surprises. When he opened it, we could see sixteen pistol barrels, extractors and firing pins for our 9mm Brownings, all laid out in velvet, designed specifically for all the parts to fit perfectly. We had never seen anything like it before in our lives. It looked more like a professional hitman’s gear.

  He explained that all the pieces in the briefcase had long since been declared unfit for use and officially destroyed. However, in reality, they had been taken out of service and put aside deliberately for just such an eventuality. He explained that we would need weapons that could never be traced; and all the Browning parts were such that they could never be identified as being part of our individual weapons.

  ‘Make sure,’ he said, looking at each one of us, ‘that you never get them mixed up with parts of your own weapons.’ (After about four months, in fact, we did get rid of four of the sixteen spare parts, throwing them into the sea somewhere south of Larne. We had used them too often.)

  After a day lazing around watching television in our billet, we drove to north-west Belfast, to a pub in a mixed area, to meet the three ‘Smerfs’. Before we went into the pub, Don pulled a photograph out of his pocket and took a good look at it. The photograph looked like a kiosk picture and was of a woman seemingly in her late twenties, with shoulder-length fair hair.

  As soon as we entered the pub, we saw her seated on the left in a booth towards the back, the quietest part of the pub. We ordered a pint of beer each and Don went over to her, to check that we did have the correct person. Then he signalled for us to join them.

  Although the area was mixed Catholic and Protestant, I felt uneasy. This was the first time in my life that I had been confronted by the enemy and I felt vulnerable just sitting there, a perfect, motionless target for any gunman. The Browning under my arm gave me some confidence as I wondered whether we had been led into a trap. I looked around the pub, checking if there were any likely gunmen, but I couldn’t tell. Benny, JR and I all seemed on edge and we kept our eyes on the doors as Don continued chatting with the woman. Thinking on it, I reckoned the four of us all knew how to handle our weapons and figured that if someone did try to shoot us we stood a better than even chance of fighting our way out. I tried to relax, to appear nonchalant, but it proved very difficult.

  The woman, who actually looked in her thirties, had bleached-blonde hair and a sallow complexion. She introduced herself as Yvonne and spoke with a strong, hard Ulster accent. She told us the other two blokes would arrive shortly so we decided to split up, just in case we had walked into a trap.

  Don and JR stayed with Yvonne and Benny and I went and stood near the bar, drinking. Ten minutes later, the two men walked in and went straight over to Yvonne, Don and JR. Benny and I stayed where we were, so we didn’t find out what they were all talking about until we returned to the Portakabin about ten o’clock.

  Throughout the hour they were chatting, I felt uneasy. Many people coming in and out of the pub seemed to spend some time watching and trying to listen to what was going on in that corner. I mentioned this to Don later and we agreed that if we had to see these informers again we would make a rendezvous in a pub well outside Belfast.

  It appeared that the three had been discussing our first job. They produced photographs of two men who they alleged were senior IRA officers, known killers, still at large in Belfast. They said the two men were living near the mainly Catholic Ardoyne area.

  Don said we would have to try to check them out, watch their movements and see if there was an opportunity to intercept them without arousing too much attention.

  We first checked out the pub where the informants told us they drank and, sure enough, we found them sitting having a quiet Sunday lunchtime pint of Guinness. We left them to their pints but continued surveillance on them for the next couple of days. It soon became apparent that all they did was eat and drink in the pub most days and nights. One night after the pub closed, we followed them home, but when they walked into the Ardoyne we knew it would be stupid to follow so we went back to Sydenham Docks.

  Each morning they would surface abou
t 11am, buy a packet of cigarettes in the newsagent’s shop near the pub and then walk on to the pub for their first drink of the day. At that time of day, it seemed there was hardly anyone about.

  On the following Wednesday night, Don said, ‘I think it’s about time we stopped poncing about and got this over and done with.’ He added, ‘All we’ve got to sort out between us is who’s going to actually pull the trigger.’

  I didn’t want to be the second one to volunteer so, without really thinking, I said, ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘This is what we will do. I think the best time to hit them is in the morning either before or after they buy their fags. They’ll probably be a bit hungover and their reactions will be slow.’

  That night I kept practising drawing my pistol. I kept loading and unloading it, practising the draw, wondering if I would fuck up. The palms of my hands kept sweating until I told myself to get a grip and then I would practise some more. That night I lay awake, tossing and turning, thinking what could go wrong. I don’t think I slept a wink, I was so worried about fucking up.

  The next morning I was still nervous. I could hardly dress myself. I didn’t want any breakfast so just had a cup of coffee and a cigarette. I practised some more and found I was shaking so much that I couldn’t hold the pistol steady. I began to get worried that I would be unable to pull the trigger when it came to it.

  Don nipped out to make a couple of phone calls. When he returned, we all bundled into the Marina and drove off with JR at the wheel. We parked about half a mile from the pub. Don said, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll go like clockwork; I promise you.’

  I gave him a quick look, got out of the car and set off towards the newsagent on my own, my mouth dry, my hands sweating. Don followed about thirty yards behind and another thirty yards behind came Benny. JR stayed with the vehicle.

  As I walked towards the newsagent, I kept checking my watch to make sure I arrived right on time, praying the two men would keep to their normal routine. As I approached the corner opposite the shop, my heart missed a beat. I could see them chatting away to each other and walking casually, as they had done every day, towards the shop. They didn’t even notice me.

  They went into the shop when I was about eighty yards away. I increased my pace, not knowing how long they would stay in there. I didn’t want to miss them. I had planned to hit them as they came out. I looked through the glass door of the shop but could see that they were still being served so I pretended to be looking at something in the window. I glanced around but there was no one to be seen.

  As I stood still, waiting impatiently, I felt my legs turn to jelly and thought I was about to collapse. My heart was thumping and my hands felt hot and sweaty. I couldn’t keep them still. I felt beads of sweat on my forehead and was sure I looked just like a gunman waiting to shoot someone. For a split second panic overtook me and I wondered if I should just forget it and go back to the car.

  As those thoughts raced through my head, I saw the shop door open and the two men emerge. I noticed that one was opening his packet of cigarettes. As soon as I saw them, my panic vanished. I just thought of what I had to do and my nerves held steady. Now I was acting without thinking.

  My pistol was already cocked. I put my hand under my leather jacket, pulled out the Browning and shot the man on my left full in the face from about five or six feet. I then immediately shot the other bloke twice, once through the heart and once in the face.

  I turned the gun on the first one again and shot him in the chest as he crumpled slowly to the ground. The glass in the door shattered and a spray of blood spurted out from the chest of the man I had shot first, covering half his body in blood.

  I just stood there, trying to take in what I had done, wondering whether I should check if they were dead. But I knew they were. Suddenly I felt a pull on my arm. It was Don. ‘What are you fucking doing … waiting to sign autographs? Come on.’

  We walked away fast, with Don looking around as though expecting something to happen. I looked around too, fearing that hundreds of people would have heard the shots and come running. But, thank God, there was no one around, the streets seemed virtually deserted. No one even came out of the shop.

  Then I saw a dark-blue Commer van driving towards us. ‘Good,’ said Don.

  The van pulled up, two men got out and walked over to the men I had shot. We took no further notice and continued walking up the road towards the waiting Marina. JR pulled away quite slowly, not wanting to draw attention.

  I sat in the back of the car shaking like a leaf. Yet, somehow, at the same time that I was shaking, I also felt relieved. I was just so glad, so grateful, that the operation had gone off so well, so easily, and somehow I hadn’t fucked up as I had feared I would.

  As we drove back to Sydenham Docks, two thoughts kept going through my mind. The first was that it had been so easy to kill someone in cold blood; the second was how easy it would be for someone to knock me off in the same way.

  Don brought me back to the moment. He turned round and said with a smile, ‘You see; I told you it would be a piece of piss.’ He paused then added, speaking to everyone in the car, ‘As long as you don’t think of them as human beings, you’re all right. Got it.’We nodded.

  I asked him who the blokes in the blue van were.

  ‘Don’t worry about them. They’re the laundry men; they do the cleaning up.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  No one said another word as we drove back to the billet. I looked around at my colleagues to see how they were reacting to what had just happened. I had pulled the trigger but we were all in this together. It had been a team effort. I kept thinking about what I had done and, more important, how I had managed to carry it out. I didn’t feel any guilt; I had been doing what I had been trained to do and these men would have done the same to me if given half a chance. They had probably already been responsible for the deaths of other soldiers, maybe innocent civilians as well. I told myself they deserved no mercy.

  My thoughts rationalised what had happened and I began to relax as we drove back to camp, a fifteen-minute ride. I pushed the sight of the two men, lying in their own blood outside the shop, to the back of my mind, not wanting to dwell on it, not wanting to know whether they were married or had any kids. I hoped they were single men with no attachments.

  That way it made my actions less brutal and helped to remove the pangs of guilt.

  ‘Don’t think of them as human beings,’ Don had said. I knew his advice would be sound and I tried to do just that but it became difficult to divorce those two dead men from the fact that, until a few moments before, they had been human beings. I felt relief that the killings were over; I felt confident that I would never have to do anything like that again; it would be the turn of the others to face their moment of truth. I had carried out my task as I had been trained to do and it had gone well. In two months, I told myself, we would be back home in England, away from this shithole of a place that I had begun to hate.

  Back at our base at Sydenham Docks, Benny put on the electric kettle and a cup of hot, strong, sweet coffee did wonders for me. Since waking that morning, I had felt a strange taste in my mouth and the coffee helped. ‘Anyone for gin rummy,’ Don asked and we took up his suggestion eagerly, knowing that he was trying to take our minds off the events of that morning.

  As we played, flashes of what had happened that morning kept invading my mind and I found it difficult to concentrate on the game. I kept thinking of the walk towards the shop with my nerves on edge and sweat on my forehead and the palm of my hands; worried, so worried that I would be unable to pull the trigger. Then the shootings. I tried to think of them but it had all been a blur as though I had switched into automatic mode, doing what had to be done but not really being in control.

  I played a lousy game that day. I lost nearly every hand because my mind kept wandering back to what had happened, back to what I had done. I kept telling myself that I had only done my duty. Yet that thought wo
uld not stop the doubts racing through my mind.

  Lunch came and went. The others all went over to the REME canteen but I didn’t want to know. I simply couldn’t face the thought of food; it turned my stomach just to think of eating. I knew the reason, of course, but didn’t want to face it. I knew I would get over my bad feelings soon enough. I kept telling myself that I was a soldier, a member of the élite SAS and here I was acting like a pathetic prat.

  Wednesday night was disco night at Sydenham, when girls from Protestant areas would be bussed in to the REME recreation block which doubled as a disco. I looked forward to that evening, to having a few pints of beer. I knew that would help me to forget.

  But the pints didn’t taste good that night, although they did make me hungry and I must have eaten eight or nine packets of crisps as I forced myself to drink the beer. I looked round the dance floor but no one held any interest for me and I turned in early. I felt that maybe sleep would save me. I was wrong. Sleep seemed impossible. I heard the others come in and clamber noisily into their bunks, a little the worse for wear. Eventually, I dozed off sometime after two in the morning but not for long.

  An hour later, I woke with a start, my body shaking with cold and sweat. I had been dreaming of the four of us running through the streets of Belfast, buildings on fire all around us and the streets full of men and women running in every direction. Every so often a sniper would shoot at us but we didn’t know his whereabouts and we would fire at random, hoping to flush out the men with guns. All of a sudden, I find myself running down a long alleyway with really high brick walls on either side. I am alone, with no one around. At the end of the alley I can see the shop where I shot the men. Then I relive what had happened but this time there are differences. My gun will not fire. I desperately try to release the safety catch but it is already off and still the gun won’t fire. The two men look at me and realise I am pointing my gun at them, intent on shooting them. They see my predicament, that my gun won’t fire, and they go for their own guns. Sweat is pouring off me, my hands shaking as I realise that they are about to kill me. I see their guns come out of the waistbands of their trousers and yet I am rooted to the spot, unable to turn and run. Something is making me stand rock steady, unable to move, and yet I know that I am about to die. They have their guns in their hands and they are laughing at me as they release their safety catches and squeeze the triggers. I know I am about to die. At that precise moment I awoke.