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

by Paul Bruce

  It seemed extraordinary to me that I could make such a decision so quickly and so decisively. I had believed that I had joined the army for the full 22 years. I intended the army to be my entire life. I had achieved my greatest ambition, to be accepted into the SAS and I still felt privileged that I had made the grade and been ‘badged’.

  However, the reality of being ordered to carry out executions in the way stipulated by Lisburn had extinguished my ambition to make the army my life. I knew the orders had nothing to do with the SAS. I knew we were simply carrying out a policy ordained from on high, either by politicians or senior officers. We had been given the most appalling job of any British soldiers serving in Ireland. That was our bad luck but I determined it wouldn’t be my bad luck for more than a couple of months. I was leaving, come what may.

  I also knew in my heart that if I didn’t get out then I would be unable to continue. And I didn’t want to let down my mates.

  Back in Belfast, we all sensed that we were hating every moment we stayed in the place. Even Don, who had experienced far more than we had with the SAS, felt the same way. He too wanted out of Belfast as quickly as possible.

  Although Motorman had sorted out some immediate problems and restored the cities to some sense of normality, the number of army patrols in the Catholic and Protestant areas had increased to such an extent that we could no longer consider cruising around the streets, armed to the teeth, randomly shooting at passersby.

  The days following Motorman had been relatively quiet, with neither the IRA nor Protestant loyalists risking taking to the streets with bombs or guns for fear of being stopped and arrested by the army and police patrols which seemed to be on every street corner.

  On Monday, 7 August, however, the Northern Ireland troubles claimed their 500th victim when a UDR member was shot dead as he returned home on leave.

  With such a marked decrease in terrorist activity, William Whitelaw continued his policy of conciliation. During the past month, the Secretary of State had released a number of Official IRA detainees, as the Officials had not broken the ceasefire they had declared at the end of May. Now they were being rewarded.

  Twelve months after the policy of internment had been introduced – a policy devised to bring an end to the bombing and shooting – the number detained without trial had been reduced from a maximum of nearly 1,000 to under 250. And yet, during that year, the violence on the streets of Belfast and Londonderry had more than tripled.

  Instead of cruising the streets during those weeks, we would spend most evenings, and half the days, in pubs outside Belfast, drinking to forget what we had been through. Sometimes we wouldn’t even bother to go out to a pub but would visit the local off-licence and buy a load of canned beer and a bottle or two of whisky. We no longer considered trying to keep fit by going on runs or long marches or even by going to the gym.

  In many ways, we had become rebels – angry, miserable and thoroughly pissed off with the way we had been treated. It seemed that every hour of every day one of us would simply say, ‘Fuck ’em, fuck the bastards, fuck the army.’

  I bought a calendar and would strike off each day to my red-letter day, 7 October 1972. Benny and JR were really jealous of the fact that I would be out, free, in just a matter of weeks. They had signed on for 22 years, but with a nine-year option, which meant that they had to stay in for at least another three years.

  Don had already done nine years. Although he hated what we had been doing in Ireland, there would be no question of his quitting. He was determined to stay for the full 22 years. ‘Some you win, some you lose,’ he would say. ‘At least there is one good thing about the work we’ve done here. Never in the rest of my army career will I have to do anything as shitty again.’

  He would tell us, especially after a few beers, how unlucky we had been in being landed with the tasks we had been set. He had never before heard of any SAS unit being used as a regular execution squad. There had been the odd occasion, certainly, but not as a frequent and sustained policy over so many months. He had sometimes wondered where the hell the orders were coming from. He knew damned well they would not be coming from the SAS.

  ‘Shit,’ Don said when he returned one morning from making his daily early-morning phone call to Lisburn. ‘It looks as though we might have some work to do. They’ve called me in.’

  Throughout the ninety minutes Don was away, the three of us feared the worst. We wondered whether it would be back to cruising the streets of Belfast or a return to the border for another poor bastard.

  ‘They want us to go back to cruising again,’ he said with disgust in his voice on his return. ‘It appears that the army have done everything for now, and they want us to stir the shit again.’

  ‘When?’ I asked, knowing full well that they would want us out that night.

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Benny. ‘Shit and fuck.’

  For the first time ever, we decided to toss a coin to see which of us would have the task of shooting that night. Benny lost.

  We took off as usual in the Ford Corona, with our SMGs at the ready and the ‘border special’ in the glove box. We rode around for perhaps thirty minutes, not wanting to find a target. We were on the verge of calling it a day when the perfect target loomed into view, a young man walking alone in a Catholic area.

  ‘Go on, Benny,’ said Don.

  ‘Do I have to?’ Benny asked.

  ‘’Course you do. Orders,’ said Don.

  As the man approached the car, not even bothering to look at us, Benny pulled up his SMG and fired a burst of just three rounds. The man went down, hit in the legs below the knee.

  I looked back at the man lying in agony on the ground. ‘Good shot,’ I said to Benny. ‘You got him in the legs.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Benny said, and winked at me.

  When we returned to Long Kesh, we went out immediately and picked up some booze. All of us were happy that the poor bastard had lived. We had obeyed orders: we had shot someone in a Catholic ghetto; but we knew we had also saved his life. Not one of us said anything openly, but throughout the time we would remain in Belfast we would not kill another man again on the streets of the city.

  A few days later, on 24 August, Don was again summoned to Lisburn and received orders to go out cruising the streets once more.

  Again we tossed a coin. This time I lost. I knew what I would do that night but I said nothing. We had been driving only a short while when we found someone in the Short Strand, not far from Belfast market.

  Deliberately, I put my SMG on ‘rapid fire’, not automatic, meaning that I could fire single rounds. As the man approached, I waited until the very last second before shooting him once in the left shoulder and once in the left thigh. He spun round. I could see the shock in his face before he fell to the ground. I knew he would live.

  In the newspaper the following day, we read that a young Catholic man had been shot and wounded in the Short Strand by four men in a car. He could not identify the men. He was in hospital recovering from his injuries which were described as ‘not serious’. I read the paragraph in the paper three or four times, smiling each time, knowing I had cheated Lisburn and saved a man’s life.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Within two weeks, it would be the turn of Don and me to face almost certain death in Belfast. It seemed ironic that we should both come so close to death so soon after we had made the decision that we would not be killing any more Catholics on the streets of Belfast.

  Don had been advised by Lisburn that the three informers, Yvonne, Mick and John, had been in touch again and that they knew where we could trace one of the other IRA men responsible for the torture and death of young Willy Best.

  On this occasion, we needed no second invitation. It had been arranged through Lisburn that we would meet Mick and John at a pub on the Crumlin Road, three miles from the city centre.

  We went armed with only our 9mm Brownings, the weapons we always carried whenever we left b
arracks, because we had no reason to believe there would be any shooting. We arrived at the pub on an overcast September evening about 9pm just before dusk. As we drove into the car park, I noticed a rusty, white Vauxhall Viva van parked near the pub with a man in the driving seat. I took no notice. JR parked about ten yards away from the van.

  As Don and I got out of the car on the side nearest the van, we saw two men pop up from the other side of the Vauxhall Viva. They were raising guns to fire at us.

  ‘SAS scum,’ I heard one of the men shout.

  We knew we had only seconds to respond, to shoot them before they killed us. By shouting at us, they had not only alerted us to their intentions but also provided us with an extra split second in which to respond. It was certain they knew our identity and were intent on murder. In that instant, I realised it would be them or us.

  Don and I were standing targets, unable to find cover before the shots would start. We went for our pistols simultaneously, automatically ripping the ‘millies’ from our shoulder holsters, at the same time listening for the shots we knew would be aimed to kill. Before I had my ‘millie’ in my hand, I heard the first shots. I felt nothing and realised we stood a chance. All of these thoughts went through my mind in a second or less.

  I heard two more pistol shots but realised they were coming from one man only. I fired as I brought my pistol up, hitting the gunman holding the revolver somewhere in the lower body. As the round hit home, his weapon flew from his hand and he went down, falling behind the van.

  I looked at the other man and could see that he was having trouble with his Thompson sub-machine gun. He was pulling frantically at the cocking lever, desperately trying to cock the weapon so that he could fire a burst at us. He didn’t get off a single round. Don shot him directly through the chest and he fell backwards.

  We didn’t bother to wait to see what had happened or whether the gunmen were dead or alive. We knew there was at least one other man, in the van’s driving seat. We had no idea whether there were others waiting in the wings. ‘Let’s go,’ said Don, without a hint of panic in his voice.

  JR had the engine of our car revving as Don and I leaped in and we drove off fast towards Belfast.

  ‘That was a fucking set-up,’ said Don. ‘And the only people who knew we would be here were the people we were meant to meet, Mick and John.’

  ‘Do we know where they’re shacked up?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Don, ‘but we know where Yvonne lives and she should know.’

  Fifteen minutes later, we drew up outside Yvonne’s flat, leaving JR in the car while the three of us went inside.

  With barely a sound, we walked up the stairs to her second-floor flat and tapped on the door. I stood to one side, my ‘millie’ in my hand, just in case a reception committee was waiting. Yvonne opened the door and, as she did so, Don smashed it open hard, the impact knocking her to the floor. He was taking no chances.

  Don picked her up roughly, taking hold of her by the scruff of the neck, and pushed her into the kitchen.

  I went into the bedroom, the sitting room and the bathroom to check if anyone else was around while Benny stood guard outside the door. There was no one.

  ‘Where are your two friends then, Yvonne?’ Don asked when she had gathered her breath.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. What’s all this about?’

  ‘Come on,’ said Don. ‘You can’t expect me to believe that. You’re the boss of this little ring of informers. You must know where we can find them.’

  Nothing was said of the fact that we had only just narrowly escaped with our lives. Nothing was said of the ambush. We didn’t know what she knew and what she didn’t know and we weren’t about to tell her.

  ‘Listen,’ said Don, ‘we just want to have a talk to them. We want them to do a little bit of work for us, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, why did you come pushing in here, sending me flying?’ she asked.

  ‘We thought they might be here, that’s all,’ he said.

  Don was in no mood to be messed about. ‘Listen, and listen hard,’ he said, taking out his pistol. ‘I’m only going to ask you this question once. Tell me where they are. I want to know and I want to know now.

  Shaking and near to tears, Yvonne gave us an address where, she said, she believed they would be holed up, a house on the Ballymurphy estate, a staunch Catholic ghetto, much of it under the control of the IRA.

  ‘Right. Now sit down.’

  Don signalled for me to come for a chat outside the room while Benny stood guard over Yvonne. ‘If she as much as moves, shoot her,’ Don said to Benny. Then he said to me, ‘You stay here and I’ll go with JR and Benny to find the other two bastards.’

  He stood silent, thinking for a moment. ‘She will have to disappear. We can’t risk her turning in any others. We’ll come back later when we’ve dealt with the other two. You know what you’ve got to do. If Mick and John show up here while we’re gone, you’ll have to take them out as best you can. At least they won’t be able to take you by surprise. They probably think we’re all dead by now. We’ll be back for you later.’

  I walked back into the room and looked at Yvonne. She had sat down and seemed more relaxed, although far from happy. She looked a mess – her hair all rumpled and dressed in a pair of old jeans and a cardigan. She offered to make a cup of coffee. ‘I need one,’ she said, still shaking.

  As she sat on the sofa opposite me, I wondered how I was going to kill her. For a while, she sat staring into her coffee mug as though oblivious to me and everything that had happened in the past ten minutes. I wondered what she was thinking. Suddenly, I noticed tears rolling down her face but I said nothing. Her shoulders began to shake and I could see she was sobbing uncontrollably. The coffee began to spill over the sides of the mug and she put it on the floor.

  ‘You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?’ she said, looking up at me, her face raw with tears and tension.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.

  ‘Because you’ve got to,’ she said mumbling through her tears. ‘It makes sense … I know why you want the other two. You’re finished with them … they could cause trouble for you and your mates.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, never taking my eyes off her.

  ‘They tried to kill you, didn’t they?’ she said, not really asking a question. In those few words, Yvonne revealed that she already knew about the ambush that had so nearly cost us our lives. ‘That’s why you came here looking for them.’

  I said nothing. Yvonne calmed down and went on with her story. ‘They told me they were going to take you out, all of you. They asked me to join in but I refused. I wanted nothing to do with it.’

  I wondered whether she was telling the truth. I knew she had more brains than Mick and John but I thought she was talking like this to save her own skin. I just looked at her sitting in the chair, defenceless and fearful.

  Then she began to go to pieces. Tears filled her eyes and she began to sob again. ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she sobbed. ‘If I warned you, then they would have done for me, you know that. Please, please, you have to believe me. I promise you that I had nothing to do with the ambush or telling Lisburn we wanted to see you. That was their idea, I promise you.’

  She looked at me, her eyes pleading to be believed, begging me to have pity on her. I didn’t know what the hell to do. I had never killed a woman and I didn’t want to start now, yet my head told me that she had known all about the ambush. She was as guilty as the other two. If they were going to die, then she, too, had to die.

  I took out my ‘millie’ and held it in my hand, deliberately not pointing it at her. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I know that we will find your two mates. Even if we don’t, another unit will find them. And if we don’t find them, then the IRA will. And you know that they wouldn’t just kill them; they would first of all spend a few days finding out what information they gave us. And you must know how the IRA get information out of t
raitors. Before killing them, the IRA would beat the shit out of them.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she sobbed, her whole body shaking with fear.

  I looked at her. She seemed so pathetic, so vulnerable. I didn’t want to kill her. I had had enough of killing defenceless people and this was a woman. I knew I couldn’t kill a woman, not in cold blood; I knew I couldn’t execute her as I had done all the others. Without realising what I was saying, I told her, ‘You’ve got one chance and only one. If you fuck off down south and never show your face in Belfast again, you might save your own skin. If you ever appear here again, we’ll get you.’

  She crawled across the room and clutched me around the knees, shaking and sobbing, trying to speak, the words incoherent. ‘I’ll go, I’ll go,’ she stammered.

  I didn’t want her to act like this towards me. I just wanted her to go, quickly. ‘You’ve got two minutes to collect your gear and go. If the others come back and find you here, I don’t know what will happen. Two minutes.’

  Yvonne got to her feet and walked into the bedroom. I watched her as she walked away from me. I didn’t bother to follow. She half-closed the door and that movement brought me to my senses. Suddenly, I realised what a bloody fool I had become. I had let my feelings control me, feeling sorry for this traitor just because she was a woman, like my mother, my sisters. I thought, ‘What the fuck am I playing at?’ and jumped up and rushed into the bedroom after her, certain that she would have a gun there. In my mind’s eye, I could see her standing there, the gun pointing at me, waiting for me to walk in. Then she would let me have it.

  As I threw open the door, my ‘millie’ in my hand, I saw Yvonne, her back towards me, rummaging through a holdall on the bed. I convinced myself she was searching for her gun.

  ‘Get away, get away,’ I yelled at her, and she turned, startled. I looked at her hands. They were empty. No gun.