by Simon Cursey
‘I’m afraid I don’t have a license yet, but I can drive,’ I replied enthusiastically.
He just smiled at me. ‘No problem, I’ll drive,’ he said.
I jumped in and off we went. I’d seen this sergeant before as he worked out of the same building as me, but I didn’t really know him.
As we drove out of camp he turned to me and asked, ‘What’s your name then young’un?’
‘Private Cursey, Sergeant.’ I replied, while I was attempting to peer in the back to see what we had with us.
‘I’m Richard, but my friends call me Richey’, he said, still smiling. ‘So what’s your name again?’
‘I’m Simon,’ I replied, catching on. ‘But my friends call me Sy.’
‘That’s better,’ he said; ‘But back in camp, don’t forget, I’m Sergeant Bennett. Now let’s go and have some fun with these explosives.’
Explosives? I thought. ‘No problem,’ I answered, and off we went.
We should have had an armed escort, of course, but Richey just said we’d be OK as no one knew we were carrying the stuff. Naturally, that made it safe as houses.
That day was absolutely fantastic. We met up with the film crew a couple of hours away at some disused Army training camp. They were unloading their trucks and getting everything ready to make some kind of commercial and wanted us to provide some big bangs. I drank a coffee with some of the crew, while Richey had a meeting with the Director to find out exactly what and how they wanted things to go. I then spent most of the morning helping Richey, after he had explained everything to me about how to mould and where to place the 808 plastic explosive charges, which we commonly used in those days. It was like blocks of Plasticine and I happily moulded the stuff in my hands, except that after a couple of hours it gets into your skin and gives you a bit of a headache. The charges had to be placed in a special sequence of positions with a cap of gun cotton impressed in the mould, so that Richey could later insert the detonators, such that the explosions appeared to move closer to the camera while they were filming. Richey, meanwhile, was busy checking the safety angles and laying out the det-cord and firing wire, but made the connections just before it was time to blow them…. The idea was that the film people wanted us to set off the explosions in belts of two or three at a time, moving closer. We started about 200 metres away then slowly closed up with about six or seven belts to a distance of about 30 metres from the camera.
By 15.30 hrs the whole thing had gone off like clock-work and the film crew were overjoyed with the material they had. We set off back to Colchester and on our return, when Richey dropped me off, he said, ‘OK, many thanks for your help young’un, we did a good job today. I’ll no doubt see you around.
I said, ‘No problem, any time … Sergeant Bennett.’ Then, with another smile, he drove off. The Army never knew a thing.
By the early part of 1969, the battalion was selected for what was known as ‘Spearhead’. At any one time, in Britain, there is a Spearhead battalion on almost immediate standby to be called-out and deployed anywhere in the world on an emergency tour. This standby duty lasts only for a month then another battalion takes over.
During the Spearhead standby, the entire battalion, its equipment and vehicles are serviced, checked and made ready to go anywhere at officially two-hours’ notice to move. All the vehicles are packed with equipment and parked on the main parade square in the centre of camp. All personnel have a full documents check, are dressed in combat suits with personal weapons issued them, and are confined to barracks for the whole period – except for the married lads, who are allowed to go home at night. As for us, we couldn’t even get undressed to go to bed, except to take off our boots. If we wanted a shower, only two at a time from each section of eight were allowed to go … quite a boring period, really, when all we could do was sit around and wait.
Sometimes we had call-out drills, usually late at night, just to test how quickly we could all get our boots on, get ourselves together and be outside standing by our vehicles ready to go. It was on one of these call-out nights at about 20:30 hrs the real thing happened.
It was February 1969 and we had been the Spearhead battalion for about ten days. We were just sitting around the barrack room, watching TV or reading. Lulu had just got married to Maurice Gibb of the Bee Gees at a church at Gerrards Cross, Buckinghamshire, if you can believe that.
We all heard the call-out signal and started to rouse ourselves for what we assumed was just another ‘waste of time’ call-out practice. Within about forty-five minutes, we were sorted and everything had been checked and made ready. We didn’t normally board the vehicles and just went through a head count before standing down and going back to the TV or bed. It was a miserable misty night, very cold and damp, and everyone was wearing thick parka jackets with the hoods up, huddled around the motors, some chatting and others smoking. The parade square was full of vehicles parked in long lines in Company order – ‘Battalion Orbat’ (Order of Battle) – and there must have been almost 1,000 men there, trying to keep warm.
This time, after the head count, we were instead told to board the vehicles and await instructions. Some of the older lads were joking around, saying it was just part of the drill and that we’d be finished soon. So we sat around, and sat around and nothing happened for about an hour. Then, suddenly, the word went around: When we set off, keep in line and keep your convoy distances. We had no idea what was going on and the feeling among the older lads was still that this was nothing particularly out of the normal run of things. ‘We’re just going for a spin around town as part of the loading drill,’ they said, but they were wrong.
After what seemed like another age of waiting around, vainly trying to stay warm in the back of our Land Rover – no heaters for passengers in those days – we began to move out at about 23:30hrs. We left camp and drove and drove for hours until we arrived at Brize Norton RAF base. On arrival the drivers were told to stay with their vehicles and the rest of us were ordered to disembark and line up in the troop movements reception centre.
‘No problem,’ came the knowledgeable voices again. ‘We’re just going through a documents check and we’ll be back in Colchester for breakfast.’
There was indeed a documents check, after which we were given boarding cards and told to climb aboard the aeroplanes looming darkly on the apron. Meanwhile, the drivers started to load their vehicles, crawling up the ’planes’ rear ramps. And there we sat for another hour.
‘We’re not really going anywhere,’ said the experts. ‘It’s just part of the drill.’
At 05:00 hrs, we took off with the first glimmers of pre-dawn gloom behind us and the tone of the wise men changed slightly: ‘Where the hell are we going? I’ve got things to do tomorrow back in camp.’ ‘OK, the joke’s over. Let’s go home.’
Within a couple of hours we landed at some wet and windy airport, which most of us assumed was Brize Norton again, until we looked out, and in disbelief saw a sign: ‘Welcome to Aldergrove Airport, Belfast.’ A panicking friend turned to me, looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘My wife will go crazy when she finds out where I am. She expects me to take the kids to school in an hour.’
Within ten minutes we had taxied to the terminal and pulled up. A couple of people boarded the plane. One of them wore civilian clothing and another was an Army sergeant in uniform, but I couldn’t recognise his cap badge and didn’t know which unit he was from. They came to deliver a briefing and let us know why we were all there.
They concluded by saying, ‘OK, can we have all the drivers out first, and when you others leave the aircraft, make your way to your vehicles and you’ll be given instructions for your transfer to the base camp you’ll be housed in.’ That was it, and we were off.
We were told in the briefing that we had been sent to Northern Ireland as a precautionary measure, because of recent unrest between small groups of the Catholic and Protestant populations. We had all watched TV news over the last few weeks which had reporte
d minor incidents of disorder in Ulster. But it never occurred to us that we would be called out to end up there. Neither had anyone mentioned anything to us about an Irish Republican Army – the ‘IRA’ as we would come to know it. It was not until later in August, that a little old lady, late one night on a street in Londonderry, surprised me with these words: ‘The IRA’s commin tae get yous lot.’
We got ourselves together with our vehicles and set off from Aldergrove in convoy at about 13:30 hrs, after we had eaten some lunch and checked over our equipment and weapons. Our destination turned out to be a small transit camp called Ballykinlar, between Downpatrick and Newcastle, County Down. And our route took us right through the centre of Belfast.
Passing through the city in February 1969 was nothing like passing through in 1972. Everything seemed quite normal, just like any other busy city anywhere, and the scene actually reminded me very much of the city centre of Leeds. Traffic bustled about and people were busy going about their daily business. Most people noticed us, but just smiled and waved as our long convoy passed by. Sometimes groups of girls and other individuals came up to us when we halted at the lights and patted us on the arm. It felt almost as if we were part of some liberating force in a war that had just been won. I had little idea then of what the problems in Ulster actually were and couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.
Ballykinlar transit camp was just outside the coastal village of Ballykinlar, with a large Army base, Abercorn Barracks, nearby, and a beautiful long sandy beach leading to the town of Newcastle a few miles away to the west. During our stay, to break the monotony of more waiting around, we often popped over the road to visit Sandes Home coffee house. It was a nice little place with good food and friendly staff, but unfortunately it was bombed in October 1974 with a substantial loss of life.
We spent about seven or eight weeks just hanging around at the camp and most of our training went on inside the camp grounds. We were allowed to go out during our free time in the evenings and at week-ends – but not in uniform or alone. Sometimes a few of us would pop into the village for a couple of beers and listen to recent hits belting out of the Juke Box, from bands like The Beach Boys, The Beatles and The Kinks.
It was in the village pub that we heard how the Kray twins had been found guilty for the murder of Jack McVitie. On March 12, sitting there with our beers, we heard that Paul McCartney had married Linda Eastman in Marylebone register office in London. So it appeared that it wasn’t just the Northern Ireland troubles that were providing the newspaper headlines. In fact everything was pretty quiet. We heard the odd reports of some small gang fights in the main city streets, together with some minor bombing incidents carried out at power stations and other installations, usually around the countryside. These bombings appeared fairly harmless at the time, being quite small improvised explosive devices, and they did little more than scratch paintwork or chip the walls. But clearly a trade was being learned.
In military intelligence parlance there is a situation known as ‘Transition to War,’ or TTW. This involves early warning signs such as subversive activity, civil unrest and sabotage. The theory is that if such problems are not addressed, rectified and controlled at an early stage, the situation will inevitably grow worse and worse, until it is totally out of control.
The local police, along with the B-Specials (a voluntary, reserve police force), were being targeted more and more by the Catholic-minority gangs in the cities of Ulster, suffering many injuries. Along with this, we could see that the bombings and incidents of civil unrest were growing more and more frequent during the spring and summer months of 1969.
We were occasionally required to drive out from Ballykinlar and visit some of the vulnerable installations around the country that had been or were likely to be targets, and to carry out guarding duties for a few days to a week at a time. These included power stations, dams, exposed pipe lines and water plants. We felt we acted as a deterrent more than anything, because nobody ever showed up when we were guarding these places. One night, at about 02:30 hrs, we were on ‘stag’ – guard duty – at a small power station out in the country. I was having a bit of fun, trying to frighten a friend with stories of banshees, telling him they were female ghosts shrouded in white that wandered around in the darkness. But all I managed to do was scare myself to death thinking we were surrounded by ghosts. I recall that because it tells me we could still be scared by ghosts at that point: such innocence, never again.
Behind our camp at Ballykinlar, about 300 metres down a dirt track, stretched our wonderful sandy beach, miles long. A few of us used to go down there for a walk on the strand or for a game of football. Quite often some of the guys brought their muddy Land Rovers down to the beach to give them a wash down, and later they would rinse off the salt water back at camp.
A friend of mine from another section, ‘Noddy’ Wheelan, decided one sunny day to take his Land Rover down to the beach for a wash. Afterwards, on trying to back away from the water’s edge, he found he was bogged down in wet sand. He decided that his best option – the tide was coming in – was to get a friend from camp to help pull him out. Twenty minutes later he returned in another Land Rover with his friend only to find his vehicle was up to its axles in the briny. After a few vain attempts to free it up, the friend made a suggestion.
‘I think it’s best to go back to camp and bring a larger recovery truck to pull it out,’ he told a doubtful Noddy. ‘You stay here and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
About 45 minutes later the friend returned with the big truck and was amazed to find that all he could see was Noddy, sitting on the top of his vehicle’s roof, about 300 metres out to sea already. Somehow, eventually, they recovered the Land Rover and managed to tow it back, where Noddy had a lot of explaining to do as his vehicle was almost written off. I say ‘almost’: the Series II was a great truck, although in this case I don’t think the electrics survived.
Another friend, ‘Sligo’ Evans – now as then I am sure nicknames are extremely common in the Army – had been down at the beach washing his Land Rover and was back in camp drying it off. Once he had done that, he lifted the bonnet and began cleaning the engine with rags and a solution of ‘av-gas’ helicopter fuel, an interesting concept. After he had finished, he dropped the bonnet down, jumped into the driver’s seat and pushed the starter button. To his surprise, the whole front of his Land Rover exploded in flames, destroying the bonnet in front of his face. Fortunately, he was unhurt but his vehicle was in a bad way, with all the wiring and hoses totally burned out.
I didn’t go out too often in the evenings during my time at Ballykinlar. I used to stay in to read, watch TV or go to another hut which some of the guys had turned into a bar. It was a nice little set-up and used to get quite busy. We had a good music system pumping out songs from behind the long bar while we drank ourselves stupid on most nights. One rainy evening, at about 23:00 hrs, there must have been about 30 of us in there, all having a good time. I was sitting at a big round table with about ten friends from my platoon, laughing and telling jokes. We had been there for about four hours and we were all pretty well-oiled. Some guys were staggering around and others falling off their chairs. Through a drunken haze, I noticed one of the lads called ‘Punchy’ Newton get up and go to the toilet. He had less than half his beer left in a pint glass, and one the other guys sitting next to him took it, put it under the table and urinated in it.
On Punchy’s return, he started to drink his beer and tried to catch up with the conversation going around. After a couple of sips, however, the beer had his whole attention. He peered at the glass and held it up to the light. ‘Something is definitely wrong with this beer,’ he said. ‘I don’t like this.’
Everyone else knew what had been done but didn’t take much notice and carried on chatting amongst themselves. A few moments later, Punchy lurched out of his chair, stumbled over to the bar and complained to the barman. ‘This beer isn’t right mate, something’s definitely wrong with
it.’
The barman who was stone-cold sober, took the beer, held it to the light, then took a large drink himself. ‘You’re right, mate, it must be off. Here, have another on me.’
Punchy wove his way back to our table, quite happy with a fresh beer in his hand. None of us said a word as he sat down, which wasn’t surprising, considering how Punchy got his nick-name. To this day, I’m sure he has no idea what was wrong with his beer that night in Ballykinlar.
At the end of April, we were told by the Company Sergeant Major (CSM) that we were pulling out.
‘We’ll soon be moving to a new location,’ he barked. ‘It’s a nice place near Londonderry in northern Ulster. There have been more and more riots taking place in the larger cities and we are required to move forward in case we are needed. The police are handling things at this time and we’re intending to move as a precautionary measure. There are no plans for us to go onto the streets with the police at this time.’
Our new home turned out to be an RAF base by the village of Ballykelly, about 20 miles east of Londonderry, near Limavady. On arrival we were allocated accommodation which was compared most favourably to Ballykinlar – and the RAF cookhouse-canteen was absolute luxury, offering a wonderful choice of menu and a coffee lounge to relax in near the entrance. Things were getting better and better, and the facilities at Ballykelly were of a much higher standard over all, as well as being placed in a much nicer setting. Best of all there was a great gym which we used almost every day. Most of our time there was in fact spent fitness training and riot control training, just in case we were called out onto the streets to help the police. The riot control training we received was the old system of the box formation, with a big banner and a loud speaker to give instructions to any rioters we might come across. Needless to say, all that changed within months of the troops being deployed on the streets, and the Army devised much more up-to-date methods over the next year or so.