Soldier Of The Queen

by Bernard O'Mahoney

  The night before I left Germany my troop held a farewell party for me at which I got quite drunk. The party came to a raucous end when Paul and others announced that they had a surprise for me. The room full of soldiers and wives fell silent as Paul said that they had flown over a special lady to be with me for the evening. Everyone thought he was about to introduce Elizabeth. The the door flew open and a full-size blow-up doll was thrown into the room. It was wearing a miniskirt and a T-shirt bearing on its front the logo of the Liverpool Echo newspaper and on the back the words "I get it six nights a week." For some reason this seemed to upset some of the wives and the party ended. Paul and I were staggering back to our room without our inflatable friend when Nasty came towards us. I still had the hump with him over the hair-cutting incident. "You off tomorrow then, Fenian? he said.

  "Fuck off," I said.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said fuck off. Have you got a problem with that?"

  He just stood there as I walked towards him. When I got about six feet away he backed off, saying: "Don't start, O'Mahoney. Or you'll be locked up tomorrow instead of going home." I knew his bottle had gone, just as it had gone when we had come under fire in Northern Ireland. Paul wanted to bash him as well but we knew he would have grassed us up, so we left it.

  Then the next day I flew back to Northern Ireland.

  18

  Your P45 Is With The ASU

  I arrived in Fermanagh for Christmas. It was good to see Elizabeth again, but I felt strange walking around as an ordinary civilian. I moved into Elizabeth's flat in the centre of Enniskillen, near the Watergate Bridge just opposite the castle. Until that time her mother, father and brother had been an invisible presence, appearing occasionally in conversation, but never in the flesh. That was about to change: I had been invited to spend Christmas Day with them. I knew her father was a retired RUC officer and that her brother had followed him into the police. I also knew her mother was a devoted follower of the Reverend Ian Paisley. I remembered how she

  had stood unsuccessfully as a Democratic Unionist Party candidate in the May council elections. Beyond those bare facts I knew little else.

  I got an inkling of troubled times ahead when Elizabeth sat me down and told me she wanted to explain a few things before I met her family. She said her mother had quite extreme views on a number of issues and, however ridiculous I found them, she would like me to respect them. In essence her mother was a fundamentalist Protestant who didn't like having anything to do with Catholics. Nor did she want her children having any such dealings. Elizabeth said she could not be honest with her mother about my background: in her mother's eyes, because I'd been born a Catholic, I would always be a Catholic, at least until I had been re-baptised as a born-again Protestant. I had never really liked the term "born a Catholic". I was not born a Catholic. I was born naked and screaming. My religion had been imposed upon me. If I'd been born in India I would have been a Sikh or a Hindu or a Moslem. The only God I had ever worshipped was George Best - and he was an Ulster Protestant.

  Elizabeth knew my views and agreed with them to a large extent, but she asked me, for the sake of family harmony, to keep my Catholic background secret. In fact she wanted me to lie. She knew her mother would pick up on my Catholic name, so she suggested a cover story. If asked, I was to say that my family came originally from southern Ireland but had been Protestants for generations, the stain of Catholicism having been expunged long ago. Her other stricture was that I had to make sure I didn't swear or blaspheme in front of her mother. I said: "Of course I'm not going to swear!" But she explained that, for her mother, swearing and blaspheming came together in the use of such words as "Jesus", "God" or "bloody". Nor could I expect to drink alcohol in her mother's house — or even give the impression that I had ever drunk alcohol anywhere in the world at any time. Apart from all that, she thought I'd get on fine.

  Elizabeth's parents' bungalow stood in a valley beside a lake with breath-taking views all round. I felt deeply uncomfortable as I walked up the pathway to the front door clutching a bottle of non-alcoholic drink. It was not the natural discomfort everyone feels before a first meeting with a partner's parents. It was more the uncomfortable feeling of knowing that, quite literally, I could not be myself. I told myself it was only for a day: I might not have to meet them ever again.

  The mother greeted us at the door. She was friendly, but reserved. I recognised her from her photo on the election leaflet. She was very softly spoken and the personification of good manners. She was slim, about 5ft 8in, with silver-white hair. She brought us into the sitting room. I wish Elizabeth had prepared me for it. I was faced with what I can only describe as a shrine to Ian Paisley. His face beamed out from numerous photos in which he was often standing alongside Elizabeth's mother. There was even a photo of the two of them together in that very room. Photos of the Queen and the royal family were also prominent, along with lots of little figurines and knick-knacks of historical figures such as King William of Orange.

  Elizabeth's dad was sitting in one of the armchairs. He was about 60, short, thick set with large gnarled hands. His white hair was balding. He got up to shake my hand and I noticed he had a bad limp. I found out later that this resulted from a wound received when the IRA blew up his Land Rover with a culvert bomb. Over dinner his wife said he had been taken to a hospital where, she claimed, he had been refused treatment by the Fenians who worked there. He had been airlifted to Belfast and had ended up being pensioned off. He was extremely quiet and hardly ever spoke. I think he was shy. When I met him in the future he would sometimes go into the garden to speak to Elizabeth or his wife.

  Over dinner the conversation was polite and stilted. I was extremely edgy, worried I would say something to identify me as a Fenian interloper. I sipped my ginger beer temperately, trying to anticipate the mother's questions so I could give myself time to prepare acceptable answers. She asked me what an Englishman was doing in Fermanagh. I realised Elizabeth had told her almost nothing about me. I described my army background and the recent tour of duty. I said I had enjoyed being in Northern Ireland and had decided to return in order to join Elizabeth in the UDR. The atmosphere changed almost immediately. I found her warming to me and, strangely, I found myself warming to her. She was lively and intelligent and not without humour: she could speak knowledgeably on many subjects. She talked a bit about her involvement in local politics, although I think she tended to assume a background knowledge I didn't have. She told me how in the sixties she had wrapped herself in the Union Flag and lain in the road to block a Civil Rights march by Catholics. She had been shocked when police moved her out the way. I was probably being overly sensitive, but I had the feeling she was analysing every word we said for signs of Catholicism or blasphemy. For instance, I might have said: "My friend Patrick has got one of those cars." And she would have said: "Patrick? That's a Catholic name. Is Patrick a Catholic?"

  After dinner we sat down again in the sitting room to watch the Queen's Speech. It was a first for me. Fortunately, they kept the television on after the speech, so at least I had a little respite from talking and the constant danger of betraying myself. But there were dangers in watching television too. Something happened on screen which made me say: "Oh, God! I don't believe it." Elizabeth's mother breathed in sharply, clutched her chest and walked out. Elizabeth whispered angrily: "I told you not to swear."

  I tried to settle down into my new life with Elizabeth, but there was an uneasiness in our relationship which had not been apparent before. Perhaps it was my fault. I had expected something different from my new life. I suppose I had almost expected to have my old army life back, but with more perks, such as the freedom to live outside camp with a woman I was fond of. But life as a civilian was very different. None of my friends were around and even from those very first days I began to feel extremely isolated. This sense of isolation would only intensify over time. In truth, the appeal of this new start began to evaporate rapidly. I tried to enjoy m
yself, but deep down I knew I had made a mistake in going back.

  Shortly after my arrival I went to the main RUC station in Enniskillen and enquired about obtaining a firearms licence. If the Provos did pay me a visit I wanted at least to have the chance to defend myself. The policeman at the desk summoned a colleague who dealt with such applications. He asked me why I wanted one. I explained my background and what I was doing in Northern Ireland. He nodded sympathetically and said he didn't think that, as a former soldier, I would have any problems. He asked me various questions from a prepared list: was I on any medication? Had

  I ever received treatment for, or been diagnosed as having, a mental illness? I got through everything all right until he came to the question I had been dreading: had I ever been convicted of a criminal offence? I suppose I could have lied, but I knew that, as a matter of course, he would run my name through the police computer and find my record. Then I would have committed another criminal offence by lying to obtain a firearm. So I told the truth. I said I'd faced a few minor charges. He asked what they were. I said: "Eh, assault, robbery, theft, threatening behaviour, possessing an offensive weapon and criminal damage." His manner became a little frosty. He told me I would be wasting my time applying: there was no way that someone with my record would be given a firearms licence. I was annoyed. I said I had only recently spent four and a half months patrolling Fermanagh with a firearm. He shrugged his shoulders.

  I had better luck with the UDR. Elizabeth brought home an application form for me which I completed immediately. I was worried the UDR would use the RUC's computer to check me out. Around three weeks later I received a letter asking me to come for interview. I returned to St Angelo and was interviewed by a UDR captain. He was relaxed and informal. He talked to me about my recent tour of duty and asked after one of my regiment's officers. He asked me why I wanted to join the UDR. I said I had thoroughly enjoyed my time in Northern Ireland and wanted to make a go of living there. He seemed happy enough with my replies and said that my application would be sent away for processing, but that he saw no obvious problems. The processing took a few months. Elizabeth came home one day and told me the outcome: I had been accepted into the UDR. I rang the captain who said I would be joining the new intake in September/October. He apologised for the fact that I'd have to wait so long, but he said the delay was unavoidable.

  I liked Elizabeth immensely. She was a lovely person, kind and gentle, and a lot of the time we got on fine, but we came from such different backgrounds that inevitably I began to feel how alien we were to each other. In the past at St Angelo she had laughed with me at the stupidity of some of the sectarian bigots at the base. She had often said: "We're not all like that." But living with her and meeting her friends and family I felt at times the evidence told me different. She certainly didn't hate Catholics, but the world she lived in had been formed by the Troubles. Almost all her friends and family were involved with the security forces in one way or another. They saw themselves as frontierspeople barricading their homesteads against marauding natives. It was all hands to the pump-action shotgun. Religion, or rather the religious denomination of others, dominated Elizabeth's thoughts and those of all her friends. Yet few of them seemed to practise their religion; few went to church or bible meetings or anything like that. The words "Protestant" and "Catholic" were used simply to identify friends from enemies, people whose company you could embrace from those whose company you had to shun.

  Elizabeth was far more liberal than the others for whom "Catholic" - any sort of Catholic - meant "republican", meant "the enemy". She could distinguish between Irish Catholics (or at least Irish-born Catholics, republicans, the enemy) and English Catholics and even English-born Irish Catholics like me. However, I felt that a lot of her friends, especially those from St Angelo who knew about my background, did not accept me. My blood tainted me; and even my prospective

  UDR uniform could not redeem me. We used to go to a particular pub in the area that was popular with UDR and RUC people. I had a few good evenings there, but the pattern was always the same. I would meet new people one evening, and we'd get on great, but the next time we met they'd be cold and distant, as if they had been warned off me. Elizabeth would sometimes say I was imagining things, but I knew I wasn't. The fact was that I could see from Elizabeth's own behaviour how whispers about someone's untrustworthiness could start. Sometimes we used to go round to the house of one of her friends. This friend used to share the house with her sister who, so far as I could see, seemed to spend her days sewing. Before we went there for the first time Elizabeth told me I was not to say anything to the sister. I asked her why. She said: "She's not to be trusted. She mixes with the wrong people." When I asked her to explain further all she could say was that this woman occasionally drank in Catholic pubs and had Catholic friends.

  I could understand the need for constant vigilance; I knew that careless cops and squaddies ended up dead, but at the same time I felt she was security-conscious to the point of obsession. Worse — she expected me to be the same. It began to put a strain on our relationship. She would always be appealing to me to think of the minutiae of personal security. I soon felt I was being nagged. She started to drive me mad with her list of things I could and couldn't do - you can't go here, you can't go there, you can't do this, you can't do that. I had never liked being told what to do — and there was nothing more likely to make me do the opposite. She kept telling me about one particular pub near the flat that I had to avoid. From the way she described it you would have thought it was the headquarters of the IRA's Northern Command. She warned me so often not to go in there that I developed a real urge to see what it was like. One day I just thought: "Fuck it. I'm going in." Inside were six old men supping Guinness and listening to diddly-diddly music. I ended up getting half-drunk with them. They were very friendly. They asked me what I was doing over there. I said I'd come over for the fishing, which a lot of English people did. Elizabeth was annoyed when I told her. She kept saying: "You shouldn't have done that. You'll end up dead if they find out what you are."

  I don't want to give the impression I was fearless — I wasn't by any means. In fact I regarded myself as extremely security-conscious. For instance, to get to the flat you had to go through a wooden door off the street into a courtyard then up some stairs to the rooms. In the living room was a set of large glass double-doors which opened onto a garden which backed into an alleyway where the public had right of way. I insisted the curtains were kept closed at all times, because I thought if gunmen attacked they would come up the alley into the garden and through those doors. Sitting watching TV with the light on and the curtains open would have meant the gunmen would not even have had to bother entering the flat. I also tied cotton around the back gate and checked it a couple of times a week to see if it had been broken by anyone coming in to snoop around. I would also walk past the flat entrance on the street if somebody was walking behind me. I would walk up the road, cross, look in a shop window for a while and walk back down. I didn't do all this because Elizabeth told me to. I did it because I had been brainwashed by the army into seeing death and danger everywhere and in everyone. It made me angry, and sometimes I felt stupid, but I knew it was necessary. So to have Elizabeth then tell me I wasn't doing enough to protect myself irritated me. Vigilance was essential, but not to the point where your quality of life disappeared.

  Elizabeth was very close to her family and we started to see quite a lot of her parents and brother. The latter was in the RUC, based in Enniskillen. He was about 35, tall and slim with a moustache. His wife was a nice woman, very approachable and thoughtful. She was very close to Elizabeth, who even told her the truth about my background. The wife assured me once that she would never disclose my secret, not even to her husband. I was surprised at this, because he struck me as one of the nicest policemen I had ever met. He didn't seem to harbour any dark thoughts about anyone. Sometimes we would visit them at their modest three-bedroomed house on the outskirts of
Enniskillen. Elizabeth felt at ease there with her brother's wife, but I sensed the latter somehow felt guilty that I was there talking to her husband who didn't know "the truth" about me. I doubt whether he would have cared, but he might himself then have felt guilty about keeping "the truth" from his mother. I often felt as if I had done something awful. I sometimes bumped into Elizabeth's brother as he patrolled the town centre. I saw at first hand the decent way he treated and spoke to people, Catholic and Protestant.

  One peculiar development was that I started getting on really well with the mother. I suppose she had never met anyone like me before and I used to make her laugh. She would greet me with real warmth and affection. She genuinely liked me and I genuinely liked her, which began to sadden me. I felt like a lying Judas. Yet I knew that if I told her I had been born a Catholic her attitude towards me would have done an about-turn. She would have treated me like a nasty disease, despite the fact that in flesh, blood, mind and spirit I would have been no different from the person she had grown fond of. I have heard black people talk about white racism, but to me this was more poisonous — and less understandable. It was a seething hatred for others born on the same small island, in the same town, even in the same hospital or street, and sharing the same language, accent and skin colour. Sometimes I used to tell Elizabeth I was going to reveal to her mother the truth about myself. She wouldn't believe me. Then I would sit in the lounge with the two of them and, looking first at Elizabeth, I would say to her mother: "I've never told you this before, but I'm. . ." The colour would drain from Elizabeth's face as she looked at me in disbelief. Then I'd say something like, ".. . I'm a... thinking of taking time out to go to America." Elizabeth's face would almost sag with relief. I would roar with laughter, whatever response her mother gave.