by Peter Taylor
To Sue, Ben and Sam
Contents
Introduction: ‘Frank’s’ Story
1. Into the Mire
2. Honeymoon
3. Divorce
4. To the Brink
5. Crackdown
6. Aftermath
7. ‘Bloody Sunday’ – The Build-up
8. ‘Bloody Sunday’ – The Killing Zone
9. The ‘Funny People’
10. Talking to the Enemy
11. Piratical Ventures
12. A Better Parachute
13. Success
14. Changing the Course of History
15. Structures of Disengagement
16. Enter the SAS
17. Piling on the Pressure
18. Shootings and Stakeouts
19. Double Disaster
20. The Iron Lady and the Iron Men
21. ‘Firepower, Speed and Aggression’
22. Group Activity
23. The Political Front
24. Loughgall
25. Death in the Afternoon: Gibraltar
26. Collusion: Brian Nelson
27. Turning the Screw
28. The Road to Peace
29. Secret Talks
30. Getting Rid of the Guns
31. Back to the ‘War’
32. Out of the Mire
33. The Hand of History
34. Farewell to Arms?
Pictures
Acknowledgements
Picture Acknowledgements
Notes
Glossary
Bibliography
A Note on the Author
By the Same Author
Also by Peter Taylor
Introduction
‘Frank’s’ Story
14 Intelligence Company – known as the Detachment or ‘Det’ – is the army’s most secret undercover surveillance unit in Northern Ireland, so secret that it doesn’t exist. Its ‘operators’ have no names, identities or numbers. They are the eyes and ears of the SAS and the RUC’s Special Branch – the men and women trained to gather vital intelligence by breaking into IRA men’s houses, bugging or ‘jarking’ IRA weapons and vehicles and working undercover at huge personal risk. Regular soldiers call them ‘The Muppets’ because of their various disguises. Since its formation in 1973, 14 Intelligence Company’s role in the ‘war’ against the IRA has been critical, latterly playing a vital – and unacknowledged – part in helping to bring the IRA to the negotiating table.
‘Frank’ is the only operator to have survived capture by the IRA – although he stopped three bullets in the process. He has no doubt about the ‘Det’s’ impact on the conflict. ‘It got to the stage where the IRA couldn’t come outside their front door without being put under surveillance and tracked. We knew where they were going, what vehicles they were using, where they were getting their weapons from and where they were hiding them. By the end of the 1980s, they didn’t know which way to turn because we were there all the time. Technology gave us the upper hand even more. We were able to watch them from a great distance, photograph what they were doing – and listen to them. We were a very small organization but we gave an awful lot. Over the years my particular unit lost nine operators, but we accounted for a lot more of the enemy.’ The irony is that because 14 Intelligence Company’s existence and activities are so sensitive, neither the army nor the MOD can publicly pay tribute to it.
Hanging on ‘Frank’s’ wall is a graphic souvenir of his many years with the ‘Det’ in Northern Ireland. It shows four men wearing balaclavas, bomber jackets and trainers emerging from an old VW Passat, brandishing a Browning 9mm revolver, a machine pistol and an HK 53 assault rifle. Inscribed in a circle round them is the ‘Det’s’ unofficial motto: ‘Go out into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in.’ There’s little doubt who ‘they’ are. When I asked where the words came from, ‘Frank’ left the room and returned with a large family Bible open at Luke 14 verse 23. It wasn’t quite the context that Luke intended.
‘Frank’ first served in Northern Ireland in the late 1970s as part of the regular army but he grew bored and frustrated ‘just wandering around, showing the flag, offering yourself as an occasional target and achieving very little’. He says he felt like a mushroom, being kept in the dark and never really knowing what was going on. On the rare occasions when soldiers did find a weapon, he felt they were being given it by other agencies just to keep them happy. Clearly his frustration showed – as did his potential. He finally escaped from the mind-numbing routine and became part of a Close Observation Platoon (COP), trained by the SAS, which was more exciting than engaging the locals in polite conversation. But he still wasn’t satisfied and wanted to be closer to the action, to the sharp end of the ‘war’. Some months later, an instructor asked him if he might be interested in ‘a more specialist job, more to the cutting edge’. ‘Frank’ decided he had nothing to lose and applied for selection, although he had no clear idea of what he was being selected for or what the specialist unit was called. He discussed it with his father who advised him, ‘Keep your mouth shut, do your best and get on with it.’
He arrived at a secret location in England and was shown into a hut with a blackboard on the wall. ‘Frank’ read the chalked-up words. ‘Basically it was a declaration that you gave up all your human rights and they could do what they wanted with you. Your rank meant nothing and your name meant nothing. You were just a number from then on.’ He was given a piece of paper to sign, signifying that he had read and understood the score. Then the psychological deconstruction began. ‘They’re only looking for a certain kind of person and they start weeding them out from the word go. Any Walter Mittys and James Bonds are soon on their way.’ Each potential recruit had been given a kit list of things to bring. If he – or she – arrived with anything extra, like love-letters, they were immediately taken away. One of ‘Frank’s’ intake, a Royal Marine officer, had a teddy bear in his suitcase. He never saw it again, and he didn’t make it through the course. The three-week selection process, run by the SAS and experienced ‘Det’ operators, was the most physically exhausting and mentally draining experience ‘Frank’ had ever undergone. Of the 130 who had been accepted for selection, only 30 passed and were sent for ‘continuation training’ at another Special Forces’ secret camp in Wales.
Although all the skills an operator required were taught in the six-month course – from how to remain anonymous in enemy territory to covert photography and electronic surveillance – the most important lesson of all was how to survive if your cover was blown. In that event, the IRA would show no mercy. The most harrowing part was being subjected to an IRA-style interrogation – although recruits were spared the full horrors. Because it was so realistic, they had to volunteer. ‘Frank’ was reluctant to describe what he went through on the grounds that ‘it would detract from the training’. One can only imagine.
Even more critical were the drills on how to survive a fire-fight. Time and again, recruits practised with their partners – the ‘Det’ always work in pairs – until their reactions became second nature. ‘We became like Siamese twins.’ Every incident in which the ‘Det’ had been involved was replayed in ‘situation awareness’ training so lessons could be learned. From day one, ‘Frank’ was instructed to carry his Browning 9 mm pistol with him wherever he went. ‘Every day we practised, drawing from a concealed position and engaging various targets.’ In particular, he was taught what to do if confronted by the IRA. ‘You make a decision, go for it and fight your way through. Our training is to ensure that you don’t get taken away for interrogation. But if you are captured, you’ve got to make sure you stay alive as long as possible to give your back-up time to find you – for the cavalry to come steaming in.’ Of the thirty potential recruits who ha
d passed selection, only nine made it to the end of continuation training. The next stop was Northern Ireland.
The ‘Det’ operates out of three Detachments that cover the province: East ‘Det’ based in Belfast, South ‘Det’ in Armagh, and North ‘Det’ in Derry. Frank was posted to North ‘Det’ which covers some of the IRA’s most active urban and rural areas, alive with some of the IRA’s most experienced gunmen and bombers. From the beginning, he had to familiarize himself not only with the known ‘players’ or ‘targets’ but with the communities from which they came. To remain anonymous and avoid attracting attention, he had to look, dress and act like everyone else around. ‘You would wander around Londonderry and see what people were wearing and you would style yourself to fit in. The same with your vehicles. You went with the fashion. It was during the early eighties so you could wear flares and your hair would be fairly long. At one time I had a beard. And you could wear plain-glass spectacles. Anything really to disguise what you looked like. Luckily, you could conceal all sorts of things under your flared trousers – your radio and spare magazines and various other things crêpe-bandaged round your legs. It was a sad day when flares went out of fashion.’
Mastering the local accent was more difficult. Those operators who came from Northern Ireland were at a huge advantage. ‘Frank’ had to improvise. ‘You would pass the time of day – I wouldn’t exactly call it speaking. You could grunt knowingly at them and even smile occasionally if you were in an area day after day, pretending to be a builder or whatever or just wandering around. When you were within speaking distance of some fairly well-known characters, the adrenalin was running and your heart was pumping. I must have bumped into the Minister for Education [Martin McGuinness] a few times.’ If such encounters in the Bogside and Creggan became too close for comfort and the locals started paying too much attention, ‘Frank’ would radio for a replacement – or simply get out fast. Given the hazards, did he enjoy it? ‘It was wonderful. Nothing like it. The buzz was fantastic. The best job in the world with a great bunch of people – comradeship you couldn’t describe or get anywhere else.’ And why did he do it? ‘I think I was fighting for the right of people to live a normal life and hopefully defending them from terrorism. We were defending democracy.’
‘Frank’ has no time for the IRA. ‘They’re just a bunch of cowards basically. It’s a bit rich they actually call themselves an army. They’re Irish Republican terrorists and that’s about it.’ There is a personal reason for his contempt: while he was on one tour, the IRA planted a car bomb outside the army’s married quarters in Londonderry. Most of the soldiers were out on duty, leaving only wives and children behind. ‘The only way to get them out was to keep running backwards and forwards past the bomb before it went off.’ With the quarters cleared and the bomb still ticking away, ‘Frank’ was told by one of the women that she’d left a young child behind. He dashed back and rescued the baby. Seconds later, the bomb went off. ‘It devastated the houses – blew them to bits. They were going to kill wives and babies. And they call themselves soldiers.’ The RUC Special Branch officers who helped ‘Frank’ clear the area were all decorated and ‘Frank’ was Mentioned in Despatches for saving the baby.
‘Det’ operators lived and breathed danger every day, trusting that if the showdown finally came and their cover was blown, months of training would maximize their chance of survival. ‘Frank’ knew in his bones that it was only a matter of time before it happened to him. It had already happened to several of his colleagues, not all of whom had lived to tell the tale. One rainy February night in 1984, ‘Frank’ and his partner ‘Jack’ were involved in an undercover operation centred on the tiny village of Dunloy in North Antrim, when the moment finally came.
At the beginning of 1984, there was intelligence that a new IRA Active Service Unit (ASU) was being formed in the village. The ‘Det’ knew the main players and where they lived. ‘Frank’ had even followed one of them onto a train from Derry and sat across the aisle from him as it chugged along the beautiful North Antrim coast. It was about as close as an operator could get. Meanwhile, the ‘Det’s’ technical experts had apparently been busy sometime earlier, bugging one of the weapons that made up the new cell’s ‘hide’. ‘Frank’ wouldn’t comment on the ‘jarking’, simply saying ‘we had the weapons under control’. The Intelligence agencies had also been active and there was information that the new ASU was about to carry out a murderous operation. The ‘Det’ took steps to prevent it. ‘Frank’ and ‘Jack’ staked out the house belonging to the family of one of the suspects, twenty-year-old Henry Hogan. The family had moved into their new house three weeks earlier, having been intimidated out of Ballymena and then out of Ballymoney by loyalists who presumably knew the family’s republican reputation. The house was one of the first to be occupied in a new development on the fringe of the village. Others were still under construction and the workmen’s huts provided reasonable cover for surveillance.
On 21 February 1984, ‘Frank’ and ‘Jack’ took up position by the huts – about a hundred metres from the Hogan’s house. It had been under surveillance for some time although this was ‘Frank’s’ first night on the job as he’d just returned from leave. There was reliable intelligence that the attack might take place at any moment. A car was expected. ‘We were in an advanced stage of thwarting the operation,’ ‘Frank’ remembers. It was a filthy night, dark, misty, pouring with rain and blowing a gale. The operators were wearing donkey jackets and jeans ‘so if we were seen, people would think we were nicking lead or bricks or just yobbos’.
But what ‘Frank’ didn’t know was that they’d been spotted. It seems the ASU’s suspicions had been aroused when the technical device bugging the weapon was discovered. The IRA also apparently received a report of a suspicious sighting by the sheds. That night, the ASU’s leader ordered Henry Hogan and another member of the unit, eighteen-year-old Declan Martin, to check it out. Around 8 o’clock, they pulled on their masks and set out in full IRA combat gear, Hogan armed with a Vigneron 9 mm sub-machine gun and Martin with an Armalite assault rifle, which had been used in the killing of an RUC constable three months earlier. They planned to surprise the strangers from the rear. As the suspect car pulled up outside the Hogans’ house, ‘Jack’, who had it in his sights, asked ‘Frank’ to confirm it was the right vehicle. ‘Frank’, who had been facing the other way to cover the rear as his training had taught him, turned to check. At that moment, Hogan and Martin appeared from the gloom. ‘They got the drop on us,’ ‘Frank’ admits. ‘It was bad skills – and bad luck – on our part. They were shouting and screaming, “Who the f***ing hell are you! What are you doing here!” They clearly weren’t sure who we were. They made us stand up with our hands in the air – the classic cowboy position. It seemed a bit bizarre at the time. For a split second I thought, my God, this is a realistic training exercise!’
Either the IRA weren’t absolutely sure their captives were soldiers and didn’t want to shoot dead burglars or local hoods, or their intention was to take them alive and march them off for interrogation and certain death. ‘Frank’ and ‘Jack’ were standing a metre apart with their hands in the air. Hogan and Martin stood three metres away, levelling the Vigneron and the Armalite at the soldiers. ‘Looking into the muzzle of an Armalite kind of clears the mind a bit, knowing what it can do.’ Months of training came into play. ‘You practise drawing and firing like in the Old Wild West movies. ‘Jack’ and I just looked at each other, nodded and went for it.’
In a single movement, they whipped their Brownings from their duffle coats and put several rounds into Hogan and Martin. ‘Your instinct at the time is survival. You’ve got to make a decision, go for it, put down as much fire as you can and win the fire-fight. There’s no such thing as a draw.’ As Hogan fell, he let off a burst of thirteen shots from his machine gun. ‘I’ve always thought of it as unlucky thirteen,’ ‘Frank’ reflects. ‘Three of them hit me. They just went up my body in a line – one through the k
nee, one through the thigh and one through the back.’ Six rounds hit ‘Jack’ – two in the neck, two in the trunk and two in the left leg. ‘Frank’ immediately radioed a contact report to his back-up team and then pulled his partner across and called his name. He got no reply. He checked his pulse but couldn’t feel anything. ‘Jack’ had been killed almost instantly.
Hogan and Martin were still alive, on the ground nearby, ‘making a noise’. ‘Frank’ says he then fired the couple of the rounds left in his Browning into them. When the ‘Det’ back-up team – always stationed nearby in case of emergency – arrived a few minutes later, they finished the IRA men off in what ‘Frank’ euphemistically called ‘a fire and movement exercise’. I suggested the wounded IRA men could have been given first aid – as soldiers had done before – but ‘Frank’ would have none of it. ‘If one of our guys had walked forward and said, “Excuse me young chap, how are you feeling?” the guy could have turned round and blown him away. That’s not the way it’s done. They were armed and minutes before had been putting rounds down. You win the fire-fight. You make sure you’re not the one that ends up dead.’ ‘Frank’ was piled into a car and rushed to Coleraine hospital ‘with blood squirting out and with one of the operators with his fingers in the holes’. Today, ‘Frank’ looks back with a mixture of emotions. ‘I don’t know whether the word “guilt” describes it. I was alive and ‘Jack’ wasn’t. It could so easily have been the other way round. If he’d been on the right and me on the left, he’d have been alive and I’d have been dead. It’s as simple as that.’
Sinn Fein erected a memorial to Henry Hogan and Declan Martin on the spot where they fell. The words on the black marble cross read ‘Killed in action by British Crown Forces’. The Martin family did not know their son had joined the IRA until they heard the news of his death. They were devastated. ‘It’s sixteen years ago now,’ his father told me, ‘and I still feel it yet.’ I asked ‘Frank’ if he had any feelings for the young men the ‘Det’ had shot dead. ‘On reflection, I felt a bit sorry for them. At least they were dressed as “soldiers”. Those who sent them out were responsible for their deaths. They should never have been out there. They should have been at home with their mummies, watching TV. I wasn’t sad for them. They tried to kill us and we killed them. That’s the way armies work.’
