Contact (14 page)

Outwardly I'm calm and unconcerned, as I casually negotiate a ditch and scramble up the other side. Inside I'm
c
o
m
ing apart at the seams, f
ighting the rising fear and the
temptation to find a hole and crawl into it. The wind teasingly brushes my face and moans mockingly through the trees and bushes, taunting me with its gentle sighs in the waving grass. Somehow we make it to the road with no incident and the two other patrols take up their cover positions, before I move on down t
o set the V.C.
P. I hope the cover groups are in the right places. There is nothing to do but act casual. This may be the only opportunity to get one of the buggers, if we can just give the impression that everything is fine and dandy. Jesus, I hope those cover groups are in the right places.

Just to lend a bit of authenticity to my play-acting, I stroll slowly across the road, in full view of any potential sniper positions. This is where I find out whether the other patrol commanders are thinking what I'm thinking.

I turn to look down the road to the border and glance up at the menacing Drumackavall feature, scene of so many deaths. That's where I expect any shots to come from.

The low, loud crack of an S.L.R. knifes through the stillness and my already tense muscles leap into action and spring me across the road to the cover of a stone wall.

"Come on lads, get your fucking arses over here."

They follow and thud down onto the earth, breathing shallowly and quickly. Thinking to myself, I realise that it was an S.L.R. and therefore one of ours, so the cover group must have spotted something.

All this before the sound of the second shot dies away. The strike is plainly visible from the still-lingering dust kicked up by the rounds hitting the rocks about 100 metres up the hill from us.

No time to think, just yell for the cover group to stay there and then start skirmishing up the hill. As I run, I can see Cpl. Menzies and his patrol flying over the ground to my right.

"Hello 1 this is 11, contact wait, out. " Panted out whilst still running up the hill. No time to worry about bombs or bullets, just get up the hill and fall apart later.

I'm aware that the firing has ceased and that the only sound is the thud of boots and the rasping pants from scared and tired
toms. At the top, there is nothi
ng. Only the chipped rock and
long scores in the ground from the strikes. It is then that I become aware of a different sound, the familiar clattering of a helicopter. The voice of the pilot comes over the static and asks if I want any help. There is no point, as whoever was up here has gone. Cpl. Menzies joins me having made a quick recce of the immediate area.

"Nothing boss. Shall I take my patrol over to the Drumackavall and have a look around there?"

"No. We'll all go together. Wait until Cpl. Edge gets h
ere and he can cover us across.
"

In a few minutes, having given my report and intentions to Coy H.Q., we are on our way again. This time out to get someone, and whoever or whatever moves is going to get a 7.62 straight between the eyes.

Over on the other side of the feature, a tractor is moving across the field, seemingly totally unaware of what has been happening. As we move across towards him, Cpl. Edge comes up on the radio.

"Hello 11, this is 11B, we've found something here, request your company, over.
"

"11 Roger out."

"Bill, grab that guy on the t
ractor and bring him over here.
"

As Cpl. Menzies gets the guy off the tractor, I make my way back to where Cpl. Edge is standing peering at something in the grass.

"We haven't touched anything, boss. It's just as we found it." Lying in the grass is an Armalite 30-round magazine with rounds in it and close by a clip of what look to be armour-piercing Garrand rounds. Well, well, what fun.

"Bill get that bloke over here. O.K. lads, get over there by the hedge and get down."

This is a precaution because the I.R.A. have a nasty habit of scattering rounds about in apparent disorder, one of which is attached to a piece of thread which in its turn is connected to a Pull-switch detonator of a large
bomb. Lift the round and little
pieces of you are spread all over the fields. Now is the time to find out if this is one of those.

"Well, what do you know about these, Paddy?"

"Nothin'. Nothin' at all. This isn't even my land." He looks pale and very nervous.

"I see. Then how would you like to pick them up for me?"

"N—n—no," he stammers, now looking visibly scared.

"Right, take this guy over th
ere and keep the gun on him. If
I go up, shoot the bastard. So P
addy, for your sake and mine, I
hope there is nothing on the end of these."

He's shaking now and I feel just the same way. Mouth like parchment and knees that want to rattle uncontrollably. What the hell am I doing this for? Why don't I get one of the toms to do it? The answer is simple, if one of the toms did it and it blew, I would never be able to live with myself. Deep breath. Bend down, fingers shaking.

"Remember, if I go, he goes."

The only thing to do is to snatch it quickly. My fingers close around the cold metal of the magazine and jerk it off the ground. Nothing. The birds are still singing in the trees and there's a look of disappointment on a couple of the toms' faces who would dearly love to blast Paddy. One down, one to go.

The clip of Garrand rounds comes off the ground just as neatly and I heave an inward sigh of relief, straighten up and look hard as nails.

"Bring the cunt over here."

Paddy looks ashen-faced and I'm thinking that he thought there just may have been something under t
here. We P.Check him, tell Coy H.
Q. of the find and wait for the
O.
C. to get his brain working and sort something out. For the moment, it's sit down and let some of the tension dissipate with the lengthening shadows of the afternoon sun.

1200 hrs. June 1976.

It seems to me

That beauty

Hides an

U
gly

Soul.

THE TELEVISION NEWSREADERS have been informing us that the
weather in England is hot and dry. They should be so lucky. The fields here are growing greener with the rain that falls most days. A little sun would be a pleasant thing.

There are pictures of rubber ducks all over my platoon Sgt.'s shed and a tom in another platoon has been making a collection of pub signs and garden gnomes and has them adorning the entrance to his bunk. The craziness helps restore
the balance after the seriousness of the patrols,
O.P.s
and other duties.

My platoon has just started a week on base duties and town patrols, which means I have to spend most of my time, when not on patrol, manning the Ops. Desk. The never-ending game of patience is spread on the desk and as usual I'm losing.

"Chopper in two minutes, sir,
" the radio op. wakes me from my reverie on the weather.

"Is this the one with Sgt. Donne's patrol on?" he says.

"Yep, " says
I
.

They are returning from hospital after a check-up. Two days ago, they were blown up on a hill near the border. One of the toms, Pte. London, was critically injured and the others miraculously suffered only fairly minor wounds. The bomb was detonated by a radio-controlled device from the other side of the border, and it was buried in the bottom of a hedgerow. Part of it failed to explode whic
h was lucky for the rest of the
patrol, otherwise most of them would now be dead. There is a feeling of impotence in the base at the inability to react. We just sit here like stuffed dummies and pretend it didn't happen. The order has come down that we must not let the locals know just how bad Pte. London is; even if he dies we have to pretend he is alive and getting better. What a farce!

The noise of the helicopter reduces as it lands then rises as it takes off again, to fly back to the comparative safety of Bessbrook. By switching on the intercom I can hear the tinny greeting of the guard by the back gate and the sound of weapons being unloaded. The everyday sounds of an Army on peacekeeping duties in South Armagh, as homely as the clink of milk bottles or letter-box flap in the morning, back in England.

"Helipad, tell Sgt. Donne that the
O.
C. wants to see him."

"Yes sir.
"

Somehow, I get the feeling that the O.C. doesn't like Sgt. Donne and I know for certain that it is reciprocated. In fact, there has even been the odd comment about rolling a grenade into his bunk. All one big happy family!

One of the toms brings in the latest consignment of feature films and the all-important mail.

In Belfast, I used to hate the hours spent on the Ops. Desk, now they form the nucleus of a safe place to stay. The longer I'm here, the less time I have to spend on the ground. To sit and while away the hours reading, day-dreaming, playing patience, provides the anaesthetic required
to forget the nerve-racking
O.P.s
and lure patrols.

Last week we did a lure on one of the bombs we found near the border on a road. Young Pat was supposed to place the ambush on the fir
ing point and I had to put a V.C.
P. on the bomb as a lure in the hope that someone would try and have a go at us. It's just as well nobody tried, as I found out, by tripping over him, that the stupid incompetent had put the ambush in the wrong place with no chance of hitting the bombers if they had been there. It was all I could do not to shoot the bastard on the
spot. The nickname the toms had
given him was sure accurate. Why more people don't get killed with idiots like him in the Army, I don't know! It took three days before I could sleep again, as I kept waking, thinking of standing on top of five hundred pounds of explosive. There's no way I'm doing any more operations with him, that's for sure.

Got to stop thinking of things like this and put the mind back into neutral, stare at the map, not seeing. Think of the odd things that you can see in this place, like taking a step back in time. Like the last country patrol when we were checking farmhouses hidden away in neglected corners, in lonely backwaters of civilisation. On a couple of occasions we came across farms that I was going to list as derelict when there was movement inside. At first, we were about to dive for cover when our fear turned to sheer amazement as a couple appeared at the door. To say they lived in squalor would be understating it. Dirt was ingrained into their skin and fleas hopped around their clothes. Their teeth had completely disintegrated and their hair was matted into filthy knots. It was like something out of Quatermass and the Pit. There was no water or electricity in the house at all and the bedding consisted of old newspapers and other sundry items such as old animal feed sacks.

Now sitting here, I'm not sure that it existed. Maybe I just hallucinated. I may have done, but not the rest of the patrol I had with me. The other farm was almost as bad and had an old hermit living there.

South Armagh, still light-years away from civilisation, still living in the dark ages, where barbarity and cruelty are the prime factors of a successful life. Where stealing and killing are as natural a part of living as breathing is to most of us.

Having been relieved for lunch and enjoyed a short break. I'm back behind the desk, sipping the strong tea out of my huge china mug. It has been too quiet over the past few days, with nothing happening and even the locals being fairly tolerant. Very unusual! Sgt. Donne sticks his head round the door,

"Was it a frog

That sat on a log

On the Monog.

Or was it a toad

That crossed the road."

He recites, and then vanishes to the cries of "Rivet, rivet." Obviously the
O.
C. is riding high in the popularity stakes at the moment. Light relief in the oppressive atmosphere.

The Ops.
Desk may provide the safety of sandbagged walls, and the illusion of impregnability but it leaves the mind open to wander through the paths of memory and dwell upon the waste and sadness generated by Ulster.

Not long ago, I had taken my patrol up to the ranges at Ballykinler to zero our weapons and what started as a relaxing day turned into one of sourness and sadness. On the way back, with the weather, as usual, wet and windy, we were involved in an accident with a Saracen just returning to Ballykinler from Bessbrook. The driver of the Saracen was clearly going too fast and when he tried to take action to avoid our three-ton trucks, he slid, hit the bank and turned over. There was a young soldier standing in the turret who was crushed as the vehicle went over. Although he was alive for a short time, all our efforts failed and he died on a lonely stretch of Irish road, in the rain.

I can clearly see his expression as the life went out of him and his eyes glazed and I can remember the feeling welling inside me as I thought of the waste and the stupidity. As if there were not enough danger, this young lad with four days left of his two-year tour was dead and I was starting to blame him now for the resurgence of my revulsion for this whole thing.

"Hello boss, book us out will you. Town patrol."

The voice of my platoon Sgt. shakes me away from those dangerous thoughts and back to the job.

"Will do. Which route are you taking?"

"Through the Rathview estate, back through the town and then I thought I may take a look at the church. Then back in round the outskirts of the town. "

"Fine, keep your head down."

"Of course, don't I always," he says and walks out quacking away.

Well, the good old rain has started again and by the sound of it, some thunder and lightning on the way too. I'm tired after a long day sitting listening to the radio and playing patience and am looking forward to a good sleep before my duty starts again in five hours time. Sitting on the edge of my bed in tee shirt and denims and boots, thinking of the list of things I must check before I go to sleep. Suddenly there
is the loud hammering of the G.P.M.
G. up in one of the
O.P
.s. Here we go again. Grab rifle and race downstairs to the Ops. Room where there is pandemonium.

"There are some gunmen over by the estate," comes the cry over the intercom from the O.P. above the noise of the machine gun.

The Sergeant Major is there, half-dressed as I am, and some of the stand-by section.

"I'll take these out through the back gate and over to the hall, " I tell the duty ops. officer and race out to the back gate. It is pouring with rain, as if the heavens suddenly opened and deposited the lot over this small piece of Ulster. The lightning splits the dark and outlines the entire landscape in a brief second before the thunder crashes again, wiping it out in an instant, plunging us back into complete blackness.

"Hey, in the O.P."

"Yeah.
"

"We're going out to the hall. Kee
p an eye on us through the I.W.
S. "

"Will do."

With the gun now silent, the only sounds are the crashing of thunder and the splattering of rain on the tin roofs and the mud now collecting in the compound. Rifles at the ready, peering into the black night, crouching at each flash of lightning and trying to imprint the scene on our memories before we fumble forward a few paces.

The Sgt. Major is right behind me, and in the brief, brilliant flashes when I turn around, I can see the rain pouring over his head, plastering his hair down and sticking his vest to his body. There is nothing by the hall, so I lead the way towards the estate, falling over invisible objects, staggering into low walls and finally making it to the spot where the gun rounds had taken great chunks out of the brickwork. Nothing. If there had been anybody they would have been long gone anyway, but it was worth checking it out. Sometimes people in a hurry drop things; not this time.

The procession back to the rear gate of the base is a comedy of falling over, bumping into each other and swearing. We get back in and I tell the
O.
P. to keep his eyes open and only to fire if he sees anything and can be certain of hitting it.

Back to the Ops. Room and report.

"You stupid idiots, what do you mean by going out without a radio. We couldn't contact you, had no way of knowing what was going on. You ever do that again and I'm going to charge you."

The
O.
C. greets us with a mouthful and I'm standing here soaking wet with the tension still on me getting a little angry.

"The O.P. had us in view all the time and if you wanted to know what was happening you only had to ask him."

"Don't talk to me that way."

I can see this is going to get a bit silly and the Sgt. Major has already walked out in disgust.

"If we had waited to get kitted out with radio and all the works, then if there had been somebody still out there, he would have left out of boredom from waiting. You know as well as I do that the only way to get these guys is to react quickly, otherwise they're gone."

"That's not the point. S.O.P.s state that you must have a radio and flak jacket when on patrol in the town.
"

Oh Jesus! I'm getting even
more angry now and if the 2 I.
C. hadn't stepped in, I would
have done something violent. S.O.P.
s for God's sake. Where does he think he is? Back in Aldershot writing out the o
rders for the guard? The 2 I.C.
tactfully ushers me away and I go on up to my bunk. The Sgt. Major is in the Mess pouring out a couple of large mugs of tea. "Here you are sir."

"Cheers," I say and slump down into one of the chairs, rainwater still dripping off my head and squelching around in my boots.

"Take no notice, sir, you know he's an idiot. He hasn't a fucking clue how to run a company."

Well loyalty can only go so far and mine is running a bit thin after that exchange downstairs, so I just nod in agreement.

"The lads are getting pissed off with him too." The Sgt. Major says, sipping the scalding liquid.

"Yes I know, that's why I go on these long patrols. At least out there we are on our own and can just concentrate on the job. What the fuck's the use of trying to argue with him, he's got blinkers on."

We sit there, soaking wet, drinking our tea and ruminating on the immediate events.

Above the sound of the thunder, comes the unmistakable boom of a large bomb exploding away to the south. The ground shakes momentarily and the Sgt. Major and I look at each other.

"We haven't got anyone to the south sir," he says to my questioning look and I relax again and get on with drinking
my
tea.

"If he wants me to go down and check that out, he's got another think coming. Not tonight. No way," I say and the Sgt. Major laughs.

"It's probably the lightning set it off anyway. Still, that's one less of the fuckers."