by Paul Bruce
Don added, ‘Be prepared.’
On this occasion, JR had no room to accelerate, slam on the handbrake and do a 180-degree turn, as the barricade was only a matter of ten yards in front of us. He took the only sensible way out, beginning a three-point turn, the manoeuvre everyone practises for their driving test. Behind the barricade we could see blokes watching us, not sure what to do.
As JR was backing to make the second part of the three-point turn, I heard a shout, ‘Get the fuckers.’ We saw them raise their machine guns and Armalites on to the top of the barricade. Before they could fire a shot, both Don and I, who were sitting on the near side, let them have it, emptying a magazine each towards where the men were standing.
As we fired, we were met with a hail of rounds but most went over the top of the Cortina. A couple hit the boot of the car and at least one crashed through the rear window, splintering glass everywhere but, thankfully, missing us. JR put his foot hard to the floor and the wheels spun and the tyres screeched as he tried to accelerate away as fast as possible.
As we drove away, Don and I banged home another magazine each and Benny joined in as we sprayed the barricade with bursts of fire, emptying the three magazines. Seconds later, JR had reached the corner of the street. We were away.
‘Shit,’ Don said. ‘That was close.’
We all agreed. Finally, we had come face to face with the enemy we had been fighting in our own way for more than nine months. This sort of fighting had been hair-raising but it was what we had been trained to do. The adrenalin was pumping and it felt good.
We decided to ditch the car almost immediately. Checking that the gunmen weren’t following, we stopped a few hundred yards down the road. There were quite a number of people around but, for some unknown reason, we decided it would be better to burn the car immediately, rather than risk driving on. Perhaps we weren’t thinking straight, perhaps we were all itching for a real fire fight, but that night we didn’t care a damn. We splashed the petrol inside the car, threw a match in and walked off as nonchalantly as possible, carrying our SMGs under our arms once more.
We had only just rounded the corner when we heard the car explode. With a smile, we kept walking. Once more, no one bothered us as we walked the two miles back to our old barracks at Sydenham Docks. Fortunately, the NCO in charge of the guard that night recognised us and gave us a vehicle and driver to take us back to Long Kesh. We all felt like a drink but resisted the impulse to go out again. In the gung-ho mood we were in, that would not have been sensible. We had narrowly escaped from two incidents which could have ended in disaster, even death. There was no need to risk our luck a third time.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Throughout the month of July, orders came thick and fast from Lisburn encouraging us to go into the streets more often, to select Catholic victims, knock some of them off and take potshots at others. The officers in command of our operations wanted to stir up as much trouble as possible. We were, however, under strict instructions not to get caught because of the fear that the whole world would then know for certain that the SAS had been involved in such dubious clandestine operations.
Despite the risks we were taking, Don still got a ticking off from the senior officers at Lisburn for burning too many Q-cars. ‘You must take greater care of the vehicles,’ he was told on more than one occasion. ‘You can’t keep burning them every few weeks. They cost a lot of money to replace.’
Don would tell us about these conversations when he returned from Lisburn briefings, angry that the top brass expected us to take so many risks when all they seemed interested in was saving money. Those remarks made us even less keen to carry out the instructions they insisted upon.
We continued with Operation Nemesis nevertheless, but we were now taking fewer risks than we had before. We took greater care to keep as far away as possible from the hard-line ‘no-go’ areas, selecting targets which didn’t necessitate risking becoming embroiled with IRA or loyalist gunmen.
Whenever we took out a victim on our nocturnal drives through Belfast, we would always buy a local Belfast paper the following day to check whether the person had died or simply been injured. On occasions, there would be no report for a couple of days.
The more mayhem we caused, the more people we killed in our random shootings, the more dangerous the operation became for the four of us, for now everyone in Belfast, both Catholic and Protestant, knew that these killings were being carried out by four men in a car. We began to feel vulnerable, believing that anyone seeing us regularly driving around would begin to suspect that we might be the four men responsible for the shootings. Despite that feeling of vulnerability, however, we continued to venture out of Long Kesh, always four of us together in the car, seemingly inviting the paramilitaries or the police to stop us and ask questions.
We discussed changing tactics, whether, on occasions, only two or three of us should go out together at night. We decided against it. We were an SAS unit; we had all been through the mill together and so we determined to stay together. There was another point. If ever we came across real trouble, if ever we had to shoot our way out of a position, we were trained to operate as a four-man unit. Furthermore, we would have more chance of making our escape with four of us firing away.
During July, we carried out the occasional random shooting on the streets of Belfast. From checks we made in the newspapers following each shooting, it seemed that we were probably responsible for the deaths of two men, both Catholics living in Belfast.
Three other Catholics died on the streets of Belfast during that July, all also shot by gunmen driving past in cars, so we knew that another bunch of men were involved in the same operation, although we would never know whether they were another SAS unit at work, Protestant paramilitary units adopting the same tactics or, perhaps, the result of internecine warfare between the two factions of the IRA.
On two occasions during July, we were also given orders to return to our old job of executing known IRA men picked up on the border, who the authorities wanted disposed of. As before, Don would be given the map reference where we would meet our SAS mates to collect the men, both of whom appeared drugged.
Neither man complained or uttered a word throughout the journeys from the border to the forest. As before, they would be told to get out of the car and walk towards the mound of earth at the end of the clearing. As before, they would be despatched with a single round from the ‘border special’ as they walked, as though in a daze, towards the trench. At the moment of death, the only noise in the forest would be the ‘thump’ of the silencer. There were no words, no cries, no screams, not a sound, save for a faint noise as the bodies collapsed into the bottom of the trench that would be their grave.
The more we were ordered to carry out these sickening killings, the more restless and miserable I became. I could not believe that the role we were being asked to carry out could, in any way, have any major effect in bringing this guerrilla war to an end. I could not help thinking that we were simply being used by the authorities as part of some unknown, untried policy. I had joined the SAS because I believed it was a privilege to belong to Britain’s élite fighting force; not to be part of an undercover execution squad.
My nightmares returned and I found it increasingly difficult to sleep. My dreams were becoming more bizarre, more frightening and all of them featured beatings and torture, killings and executions. I felt that my dreams were telling me what I was beginning to feel was true: that I could not continue operating like this for very much longer. As the summer wore on, I felt sure all of us were having the same thoughts, harbouring the same doubts.
One night in late July, we went out for a few pints and took a couple of bottles of whisky back to the billet. I hated the taste of whisky, and always had done, but that night I saw whisky as a way of forgetting everything. We sat and drank. More important, we began to talk.
I had been right. My three mates had all had doubts, and JR and Benny had been suffering nightmares too
.
Even Don admitted to the same reservations. ‘Never in my wildest dreams,’ he admitted, ‘did I ever imagine that I would be involved in something like this, executing people in cold blood and shooting down innocent bastards on the streets of a British city.’
He confessed that he had never known the SAS to be involved in any operations like this or on such a long time scale. He told us of numerous occasions when the SAS would be called upon to take out individuals, but never to take out so many people in such cowardly circumstances.
JR admitted how relieved he was that he had not been asked to carry out another execution. ‘I honestly don’t think I would have been able to do it,’ he confessed. ‘Every time I saw one of you blokes pull the trigger, I felt like throwing up. I would watch the poor bastard walking from the car knowing that in a few seconds he would be dead meat and I shivered at the thought and looked away.’
Frustrated and angry at the tasks we had been made to carry out for the last nine months, Benny said, ‘Why don’t we just go out and put an end to all this. Every week in the press, there are people demanding the Catholics interned in Long Kesh must be freed. Well, why don’t we set them free?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked him.
‘Why don’t we go and get four “gympies” [general-purpose machine-guns] from the armoury, go into the jail and wipe out the fucking lot of them. Then it’ll be over; then maybe those fuckers in Lisburn will be satisfied that we’ve killed enough of them and we’ll be able to go back to Hereford.’
We all agreed, though not in reality. For two hours, we talked about our predicament but none of us had any idea how the hell we could escape and get back to Hereford and sanity.
‘Do you think you could have a word with those sods at Lisburn?’ I asked Don.
He looked dejected and said nothing for a moment. Then he said, ‘We can’t do that. we’re SAS. We obey orders, remember. Somehow we’ve got to make the best of it until they ship us out.’ Then his voice sounded more optimistic. ‘I’ll tell you what I will do,’ he continued. ‘I’ll explain that we’ve been cooped up here for nine months and we need a break – at least some decent home leave.’
That helped to lighten the atmosphere. Drunk and miserable but cheered by the thought of seeing Maria, I slept peacefully that night.
Early on Sunday, 30 July, 150 Saladin and Saracen armoured cars, with a 50-ton Centurion tank fitted with special bulldozer blades, rumbled through the streets of Londonderry towards the IRA strongholds in the Bogside and Creggan. No army personnel or police had been in those ‘no-go’ areas for more than twelve months.
Operation Motorman took the IRA and the loyalist paramilitaries by surprise. Catholic and Protestant ‘no-go’ areas in Belfast were also targeted in the operation as the decision had been taken at Cabinet level in London to put an end to the ‘no-go’ areas of the United Kingdom. Twenty thousand troops and eight thousand RUC officers were involved that day.
Northern Ireland Secretary William Whitelaw claimed, ‘The army’s aim was to remove the capacity of the Provisional IRA to cause suffering and hardship in the community.’
William Whitelaw’s words seemed prescient, as later that day the IRA, furious that their ‘no-go’ areas had been breached, their authority challenged, went to the tiny village of Claudy, nine miles from Londonderry, a village that had seen no violence, and, without any warning, exploded three car bombs, killing six people including a girl aged twelve. Thirty-two innocent people were injured.
A couple of days before Operation Motorman, Don had been informed that our services would not be required for a few days and we were each given a seven-day pass and a return air ticket to Gatwick. Don did not know what was about to happen but the news that we had seven days back at home pleased all of us.
He had walked into the billet looking downcast and miserable. We all expected the worst – another bloody execution. ‘I’m afraid the news I’ve got for you is going to break your hearts,’ he said calmly.
‘Now what the fuck do they want us to go and do – shoot the Pope?’ I said sarcastically.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s worse than that. We’ve been given seven days’ leave and I have the air tickets right here.’
We picked up the lightweight tin ashtrays and anything else that came to hand – pillows, boots and socks – and threw them at him for winding us up.
I have since wondered how we would have coped with the situation if Lisburn hadn’t given us a break at that time. On occasions, I felt, as did the others, that we had reached breaking point. The entire Province seemed on edge. Not surprisingly, as a total of 467 people would die in terrorist action during 1972.
I phoned Maria and asked if she could possibly get seven days’ holiday. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to phone you back,’ she said, ‘but I doubt it. We’re terribly busy here.’
‘Can’t you find a way? Can’t you go sick or something?’ I almost pleaded.
Later, she would tell me that she could hear the tension in my voice and realised that a week’s holiday together could well rekindle, if not cement, our old relationship.
‘Leave it to me,’ she said. ‘I’ll work out something.’
‘Fantastic,’ I said, ‘I’ll phone you from Gatwick tomorrow.’
Forty-eight hours later, Maria and I were signing the register in a small bed and breakfast hotel not far from the promenade at Bournemouth. As we signed ‘Mr and Mrs Bruce’, Maria looked at me but said nothing.
We had hardly kissed since we met. I had picked her up from her parents’ home at Tidworth in the rental car I collected at Gatwick. It seemed strange. We hardly said a word when we drove off but she seemed happy when I surprised her by saying we were going to Bournemouth together for a week.
After driving in near silence for an hour, I thought it would be a good idea to stop in a pub for a bite of lunch and a drink. I needed a pint and felt sure Maria needed a drink to help her to relax. It worked. As we left the pub, she took hold of my hand and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘Welcome home,’ she said. For the rest of the journey, we talked and unwound and I began to feel human once again.
That week seemed like bliss and it went by at the speed of light. We would rise late in the morning, laze together on the beautiful sandy beach or go for long walks. We would have a pub lunch and go to bed for an hour every afternoon. At night, we ate in different pubs and restaurants, usually ending the evening in a pub before returning to the hotel to spend hours making love.
As the end of our week together approached, I became nervous and withdrawn. I knew the reason – I didn’t want to return to bloody Belfast and reality. I lay awake at night looking at the ceiling, looking at the sleeping, peaceful Maria at my side and the thought of executing more strangers made my stomach turn till I felt I would be sick.
Maria noticed the change and asked me what was wrong, but I felt I couldn’t tell her the truth. She believed I was having second thoughts about becoming involved with her again. Nothing was further from the truth.
One night, having drunk too much, I knew I had to tell her why I was behaving in such a way; I had to tell her that it was nothing whatsoever to do with her or our relationship. Trying to sound calm and sensible, I told her, ‘I have not had such a wonderful week as this since I went to Belfast nearly a year ago. I think you’re great and I love being with you.’
I paused and she waited for me to continue. ‘I’m sorry that I have been so morose and such lousy company over the last couple of days, but it’s only because this week is coming to an end and I have to go back to Belfast.’
‘What’s so awful about Belfast?’ she asked. ‘Is it that bad out there?’
‘I can’t tell you, you know that.’
‘But what’s it got to do with?’ she asked again.
I tried to explain to her without revealing things I knew I shouldn’t tell her but in a way that would make some sense. ‘Listen,’ I began quietly, ‘I’ll only tell you this once because I do
n’t want to go into the explanation more than that. Ever since I went to Belfast, I’ve never worn a uniform. We’ve been engaged in undercover work and the missions have been truly horrendous. It’s been worse than anything you’ve ever seen in the movies. I can’t tell you exactly what’s been happening but quite often I have felt physically sick at what we’ve been having to do …’
I paused again and Maria encouraged me to continue.
‘And now I can’t face it any more. Neither can the others. The last thing I want to do is return to Belfast but I have to. Now do you understand?’
‘Sort of,’ she answered softly and grabbed my hand and kissed it. ‘You poor thing.’
‘Now you understand why I can’t tell you anything more.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘That’s that settled then. Now I’ve got to ask you two questions.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Do you still want to go out with me?’
‘Yes, definitely,’ she said.
‘Good,’ I replied.
‘And the second?’
‘What do you want to drink?’
‘You bastard,’ she said. ‘I’ll have another lager but I don’t know whether you should have one. You’ve had one too many already.’
As I walked to the bar and ordered the beers, I felt a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I still had to return to Belfast but somehow the whole idea didn’t seem so bad. I could face it. ‘Fuck the army,’ I thought.
As the aircraft circled over Belfast the following night, I reached a decision. I would leave the army. The only way I would be able to cope with staying in Belfast would be the knowledge that, whatever happened, it was only temporary.’
I knew that my option to leave the army was due to come up at the beginning of October. In 1966, I had signed on for 22 years with an option of quitting after six years, in October 1972. To exercise that option, however, it would be necessary for me to inform my parent unit, the REME, two weeks before the due date, otherwise I would automatically be agreeing to carry on for a further three years. Come what may, I decided to tell the REME of my decision before the middle of September.
