A Breed of Heroes (37 page)

Not that it was without problems. Charles had to pile so much stuff on the corrugated iron, including his sleeping-bag, to act as a mattress thick enough not to conform to the corrugations, that
there was very little room between that and the top bunk. Once again, he found himself unable to sit up in bed and compelled to wriggle in and out on his elbows and knees. Every time he or
Chatsworth entered or left the bunk, or even when Chatsworth turned over, the whole structure creaked and wobbled. Charles was in constant fear that the top would give way and Chatsworth would come
crashing down on him, although most of the time their periods of sleep did not coincide and whoever was trying to sleep would be woken by the other returning. Even when they did coincide
Charles’s rest was often interrupted by Chatsworth’s climbing in and out on unexplained personal missions throughout the night. Chatsworth denied a weak bladder or a history of
sleep-walking. He even attempted to deny the mysterious missions but in the end conceded that he might very occasionally get up during the night in order to ‘keep an eye on the place’
for the benefit of everyone else. No more could ever be got out of him. Indeed, Charles gave up questioning him altogether after being awoken one night by a painful blow on the side of the head,
caused by a Browning which had fallen from beneath Chatsworth’s pillow when he turned over. Angry, and feeling a swelling already forming on his head, Charles had wriggled out and woken
Chatsworth, only to see another Browning clatter to the floor when Chatsworth sat up. Chatsworth was unapologetic but did promise to put the Brownings ‘with the others’.

Overall, though, Charles’s new life was only moderately unendurable. He was better off than many people in that he was expected to be in two places – the Factory and the battalion HQ
– and so had good reason for not being in either and was accountable to no one. It also meant that he was not really wanted in either place, except for watchkeeping, and so led a largely
purposeless and peripatetic existence. There was just over a fortnight to go before the battalion was due to leave, and so the quiet week following his removal to the Factory was very welcome. With
every day that passed he felt his chances of survival were better. He saw no journalists and even heard nothing from Beazely, though Van Horne claimed to have taken a call from an incoherent drunk
that could have been him. The CO went back to England for five days, Anthony Hamilton-Smith took command and a torpor fell upon Belfast that was every bit as persistent and universal as the
rain.

Whether the events of the Sunday that ended the week could have occurred if the CO had been there was a matter for discussion by the more thoughtful for some days afterwards.
There was no doubt that his presence would have made a difference, as it did to every occasion, but whether for good or ill it was impossible to say. The fact that all had turned out well could not
in all fairness be attributed to Anthony’s being in charge, though it was difficult to imagine them happening in the way they did without him. It would probably have been fairest to describe
him as a necessary though not a sufficient condition.

It began at about two in the afternoon with an anonymous telephone call to the RUC which warned of a landmine in a tunnel beneath the Factory. To the RUC, who spent their lives dealing with such
matters, this was a run-of-the-mill business that would have to be heeded but which was no cause for real alarm. There were many hoax calls every week and this smelt like one. Edward, however, had
spent months worrying about just such a possibility and to him the call was confirmation of his worst fears. He had regarded the first search of tunnels beneath the Factory as almost criminally
superficial and had at one time attempted to establish a permanent presence down there. He was thwarted only by not having enough soldiers to go round. With regard to Anthony and others in
battalion HQ the warning was something to occupy them on a dreary Sunday, and it was very obviously just this for the local people, who turned out in force to watch the search teams arrive, and the
ensuing confusion. Very likely the caller was among them, finding it a better way to pass the time than anything else within the scope of his imagination.

Edward immediately ordered the evacuation of the Factory. Without actually refusing to obey the order everyone within hearing pointed out to him that this would render the company
non-operational and that once this were known they could expect similar calls every day. He compromised by insisting that only essential personnel should remain on duty in the Factory and that all
others should assemble in the yard outside. The argument that they were no safer there than in the building as there was no knowing where unknown tunnels went – if anywhere – carried no
weight with him. He also insisted that all vehicles be moved into surrounding streets and guarded. As the company was under strength it fell to Moore’s platoon to do this, despite their
having had no more than four hours of proper sleep in the last fifty, and they moved into the streets like youthful zombies. ‘Perfect for snipers,’ Chatsworth remarked quietly.

‘Is it true the major’s got sponge in his boots to absorb the blast?’ asked the CSM. ‘Looks more like hot nails from the way he’s hopping about.’

Search teams arrived from Brigade to help with the known tunnels, and those in the company who had been down them before wearily prepared for another futile and grubby descent. Anthony and what
was normally the CO’s Rover Group arrived with good humour and a lot of unnecessary revving of engines. He jumped out of his Land-Rover. ‘Glad of a chance to straighten the old pins
after lunch,’ he said to Edward. ‘Does ’em no good to be folded under you all the time. When’s liftoff, d’you think?’

Edward’s puckered face looked hurt and serious. ‘This is no time for flippancy if you don’t mind my saying so, Anthony. It could be the real thing.’

‘Shouldn’t think so, old boy. It was the real thing up at our place last time and no one bothered telling us about it in advance, did they? Wouldn’t have thought they would
this time.’

‘You never know. It might be a ploy to lure more troops into the area and get us all at one go.’

Anthony looked at the disconsolate and weary soldiers hanging around in the yard and lounging by their vehicles in the streets. ‘In which case they reckoned without your precautions.
Dispersal in the face of nuclear attack. Is that it, eh? That’s the stuff to give ’em.’ Anthony laughed and strolled away to talk to some of the soldiers, his hands behind his
back and his moustache bristling cheerfully.

Nigel Beale followed him like a neglected and irritable terrier. His sympathies were clearly with Edward. Since being shut up at breakfast his conversation when in Anthony’s presence had
been relatively muted, though he made it plain from his tone and attitude that he regarded Anthony as unforgivably flippant. ‘You can’t be too sure,’ he said to Charles.
‘Anything’s possible in a case like this. We could be standing on a whole bed of gelignite.’

Charles, like most of the others, had been looking forward to a nap that afternoon. ‘So why are we hanging around here?’

‘Because there’s nowhere else to go, is there? We can’t just abandon the area to the enemy.’

‘Exactly. So we might just as well go back inside and lie down.’

‘If it goes off while we’re inside, the building might come down on us.’

‘So it will if we’re outside. It’s big enough.’

Nigel buttoned his flak jacket up to the neck. ‘Strikes me you have a rather over-casual attitude, Thoroughgood. One has to be alert.’

‘You intend to die with your boots on, I suppose?’

‘Yes, frankly. Don’t you?’

‘I’ve never thought about it.’

‘Well, there you are then. Time you did.’

Henry Sandy and his ambulance arrived, summoned unnecessarily. He was pasty-faced and bleary-eyed. ‘Bloody well woke me up,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t think where I was and I
forgot my pistol. Thank God the CO’s not here. I’ve stuffed my holster with shell dressings. Anthony won’t notice. I need my afternoon kips to get me through the evening.
Where’s Chatsworth? He owes me money.’

‘Haven’t seen him. Try the ops room. He might be able to lend you a pistol. He seems to have three or four.’

‘Sell me, more like. Where is the ops room in this place? I keep forgetting.’ He wandered off towards the Factory, one boot undone and his holster bulging with shell dressings.

To everyone’s surprise, the sun came out. The pale faces of the soldiers looked even paler in its light. It was a gentle, warm sun and it was oddly moving to see so many very tired, very
young men in uniform dozing, leaning and waiting, squatting on the ground with their rifles across their knees and their heads hanging down. Waiting formed a very large part of military life.
However, on this occasion the soldiers were not the only ones, as a crowd of about a hundred local people had now gathered and they too sat good-naturedly on the road and pavement, peering in
through the Factory gates and even making the odd remark to the soldiers guarding the vehicles in the street. The crowd seemed to know all about the reason for the search and to be quite unworried
by any possible consequences. They seemed glad of the spectacle, and the sun improved everyone’s humour.

Soon some press arrived but they were not allowed in through the gates. They leaned against the wall, smoked and talked with Charles and Van Horne, who had arrived with Anthony’s party
although he was supposed to be manning the phone in battalion HQ. After a while Charles noticed that Moira Conn of the
Sunday Truth
was also there, talking earnestly to some of the local
people. She looked more attractive than he remembered, with a three-quarter-length dark green skirt and a cream blouse that made the most of her bosom. She had also done something to her hair,
which seemed fuller and more wavy. She carried the same large bag and talked and smoked in the same aggressive manner. Van Horne was watching her surreptitiously and, Charles felt, watching
him.

Edward flapped around inside the yard like a newly-decapitated chicken but no one took any notice and the whole scene developed an easy-going village fete atmosphere as welcome as it was
novel.

After a while there was a stir and commotion by a manhole in one corner of the yard. A group of soldiers that included Anthony and Nigel was examining something while Edward circled them warily
from a distance of ten yards or so. Charles went over and found that a hoard of beer and spirits had been discovered. Anthony was fondling a bottle of Black Bush and commenting on the history of
the distillery. The hole had been hollowed out from the side of the manhole but led nowhere. It was in a part of the yard that had been occupied by the Army only in the past year or so after an
adjacent house had been gutted by fire. Most likely it had been a hide for one of the many illegal drinking clubs – shebeens – in the area. After the announcement by the search teams
that all known tunnels were clean, there was nothing more needed to contribute to the carnival atmosphere of the afternoon, though Edward still worried that there might be other, deeper tunnels
packed with explosive. Charles told the press at the gate what had happened. Some suggested that the drink had been the object of the search all along and began to drift away. There were still half
a dozen or so left – including Moira Conn, who had given no sign of recognising Charles – when Anthony wandered over. ‘Gentlemen – and lady – awfully sorry,
Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Many apologies for bringing you all this way for nothing but a few crates of beer and some liver-warmer. You must get very fed up with this sort of wild goose
chase. Feel the least we can do is offer you a share of the spoils. Would you care to join us for a drink?’

This was not an invitation to be refused by members of the press without compromise to professional pride and integrity. There was a general movement in through the gates. Only Moira Conn hung
back. Anthony, with exaggerated gallantry, offered her his arm. ‘Madam, will you be corrupted?’

Charles waited for the rebuff but instead, with a quick smile of quite unexpected charm, she took Anthony’s arm. ‘And what makes you think you’re the man to do it,
Major?’

Anthony grinned, smoothed his moustache and patted her hand. ‘Wishful thinking, m’dear, at my age. I can’t corrupt anyone any more. No one takes me seriously.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

Anthony’s eyes twinkled. ‘Ah, but would you dare allow me the chance to prove myself wrong?’ Laughing, they walked past Charles into the yard and followed the happy gaggle of
press into the Factory. Charles managed to catch Moira Conn’s eye for about half a second but there was not the faintest flicker of recognition. It seemed that she simply didn’t
remember him.

Looking like a bizarre wedding party going into church the little group climbed the stairs leading up to the Army floors of the factory, watched by the envious soldiers in the yard. Van Horne
was nowhere to be seen.

Charles was about to follow them into the building when he was summoned back by shouts from the sentry at the gate. There seemed to be some sort of trouble, almost a scuffle, going on outside.
When he got there he found that one of the guards had pinioned Beazely against the wall, his forearm across Beazely’s throat. ‘Caught this one trying to get in. Says he knows you,
sir.’

‘It’s all right. I do know him.’

Beazely was released. He adjusted his spectacles and collar with almost ritualistic movements, as though it were a way of introducing himself. He seemed to expect to be manhandled. ‘Great,
Charlie. Heard about the search. Great stuff. Got a taxi straight down. Thought you might have rung me, though. Everyone else has been and gone, I understand. Apart from the ones having the social
briefing.’

‘Well, that’s Anthony’s doing, not mine.’

‘All the same, fruit, you might have told me.’ Beazely stepped in through the gates with the air of one who had accepted a pressing invitation and was determined to make up for being
late.

‘I thought you were going to kill yourself the other night,’ Charles remarked as they walked across the yard.