by Simon Cursey
The RAF lads that we mixed with at the base were very friendly and helpful. We all got along very well together and they always made us welcome at their bar in the evenings. For our part, we were always on our best behaviour while we were there. They never asked us why we were there and didn’t have much to say about the growing troubles in the urban areas. All we knew ourselves was what we saw on TV like everyone else. We enjoyed our time there and the only regret was that we stayed a mere five weeks.
Mostly we were training, as I said, but on some days we were invited to go for a flight with some of the air crews. One time I went up in an old Shackleton bomber for a few hours, enjoying the wonderful views over Northern Ireland. It felt great climbing aboard, like something out of an old war movie. We had a great day up in the clouds, soaring about like a big silver bird, following the coastline then swooping inland for a look around. I spent most of my time up there forward, strapped into the co-pilot’s seat, at times actually taking the controls while the skipper slipped away to grabbed a bite to eat, after he had explained a few vital points, such as that I had to keep the power on, watch the altitude metre and keep an eye on the horizon dial – keeping it horizontal, preferably. I took the controls before he got up and flew this enormous fighting machine, a little up, then a little down, banking left a little and then a little right. It was fantastic and looked very much like a smaller version of the old Lancaster bomber. Most of the time we were up in the air, my other two mates made themselves comfortable in the gunner’s turrets and slept most of the time. On our way back to base, I asked the pilot if I could have a go at landing it.
‘Let me land it sir, I know I can do it if you talk me through it.’
‘I’m afraid not son, it’s more than my job’s worth,’ he said, smiling across at me. ‘But you can stay here with me as we land.’
After we were safely back on the ground I felt glad that the pilot had refused my request and brought us down himself. It was frightening watching the ground rearing towards you at about 150 mph while sat up front in the nose of an elderly aeroplane.
By early June the rioting in Londonderry seemed to be worsening on an almost daily basis and it was becoming apparent that the police and B-Specials were having problems trying to control it. One morning, later in June, we were informed we were to be moving again, this time a few miles nearer to Londonderry. Our new location was a shore naval base just outside the city, HMS Sea Eagle.
Again, after cleaning everything and repacking all our equipment in the middle of the night, we were loaded up in our vehicles and ready to move by 06:30 hrs. Soon after that, at about 07:15 hrs, we set off in our Support Company convoy of about 25 vehicles and made it to HMS Sea Eagle for 08:00 hrs, just in time for breakfast.
HMS Sea Eagle, a ‘stone frigate’ on the outskirts of Londonderry, is quite a small base but in a pleasant setting, overlooking the river Foyle, with Londonderry a few miles off in the distance to the west. Our accommodation turned out to be very much like that at Ballykelly, very tidy and comfortable, except that here there were not so many people around and the place seemed quite deserted at times.
We spent about six weeks at Sea Eagle, again just keeping fit and covering the ever more frequent commitments to guard installations around the countryside. We also kept up regular practice of the soon-to-be obsolete riot drills.
Most evenings we spent glued to the TV, watching reports of the rioting that had gone on around parts of the city during that day. To us, Belfast appeared to be relatively quiet at that time and most of the problems seemed to be in the area of Londonderry. If we got fed up with watching TV, we sat on our balconies with a few cans of beer. We spent many hours during the night just looking across the river Foyle to the northern part of Londonderry, watching it burn, with the sky glowing eerily red in the distance. It transpired we were actually witnessing the destruction of Bogside in Derry. But we were all thinking the same thing: we could be in the middle of that mess any day now.
The street rioting over those next few weeks of July and early August 1969 gradually became more and more intense, and we saw on TV some terrifying scenes of the police and B-Specials taking horrendous beatings. And every evening the city street fires spread wider until the entire city looked like a glowing inferno. Night after night, clutching our beers, we nervously watched those ferocious Derry skies from the safety of our balconies.
By late July we all knew perfectly well we’d have to go in sooner or later. The TV and press was full of it: vicious rioting, houses burned out street by street, the police and B-Specials suffering terrible injuries. I hauntingly remember on the news seeing one member of the B-Specials totally engulfed in flames, rolling desperately in the street after some youth had thrown a petrol bomb at the Land Rover he was standing next to.
It was surreal to switch from that image to Neil Armstrong steeping down onto the Moon’s surface in the Sea of Tranquillity, which happened exactly then, on July 21, 1969. ‘We came in peace for all mankind,’ read a plaque that Armstrong laid on the lunar surface. I turned to gaze at the flames on the Derry horizon. Yes, peace.
* * *
After lunch, one day at the beginning of August 1969, we were told to strip down our Land Rovers, remove the canopies, fold all the windows down, get rid of any loose items which were normally tied or clipped on the sides or backs of our vehicles, such as tow chains and shovels. The windscreens on those 1960s Series IIs unclipped and lay down forward on the bonnet, resting on top of the spare tyre. The side windows we took off completely or just wound down, but later decided it would be best to totally get rid of the doors, which allowed much quicker access in and out of the vehicles, if required. For some reason in those early days we didn’t think about protection, but then we’d never been in a riot. We were more focused on quick access in and out of the vehicles; our personal protection at that time was an afterthought. Less than a year later, Land Rovers were being heavily armoured and kitted out with Makrolon sheeting.
Our personal equipment included the old Second World War-style British steel helmet we had at that time and also our old pattern full grey combat suits. Our weapon was the 1960s self-loading rifle, the FN SLR 7.62mm. We were told to unclip the sling from the barrel end and clip it onto our wrists in case someone tried to snatch away our weapon on the streets.
Then the inevitable happened. After lunch on August 13, Support Company was called to a briefing in the gym by the Officer Commanding. We all piled in there at around 15:30 hrs wondering what the OC had to say. Some of the guys were standing around the walls but most of us had to sit down so everyone could see. The OC turned up and sat at the front, with a couple of his HQ staff and his dog.
‘As you all know,’ he intoned, ‘the police in the city have been having quite a difficult time over the last few weeks.’ He looked around at our attentive faces. ‘Therefore, arrangements have been made for us to enter the city tomorrow and we need to be ready to move by 10:00 hrs in support of the local police. We are to support the police and support is what we will be there for. We will be armed with weapons and five rounds of ammunition each, kept in your pouches, but on no account is anyone to load-up and open fire in any circumstances. I mean any circumstances.’
That night was a very tense and nervous one for us all, as we pondered what we could expect in the morning. We had all seen the fighting from across the river but tomorrow we’d be right in the middle of it all. That night, at the age of just 18, I began to understand what it was like to sit around and wait before entering a combat zone, and I learned that fear of the unknown is a very powerful one.
After a quiet and sombre dinner, we spent most of that evening packing our kit and cleaning our weapons. Some guys were cracking jokes and throwing things at each other, trying to relieve the tension that was thick in the air. I don’t think many of us slept very well that night.
Over breakfast at 07:00 hrs the next day, August 14, the tension levels were a little lower and the atmosphere seemed more re
laxed. Most guys were more cheerful and chatty. The older guys on my table seemed confident.
‘Don’t worry young’un, we’ll have some big guns with us. Maybe we can’t use them but the Paddies don’t know that,’ said one veteran of Aden. ‘When you’re on the street just hold your weapon up, stand your ground, look as if you mean business and you won’t have any problems.’
Another older friend leaned over and whispered to me, ‘Just stick close to me when we go in, ‘Sy, you’ll be OK.’
I looked at him. ‘Thanks, yes. We’ll be OK.’
By 08:30 hrs we were all loaded up, weapons, equipment and radios checked and ready to go. It was a calm sunny day and I could see on the western horizon beyond Derry a few blooming white clouds. At 10:00 hrs I climbed in and settled down in the back of our stripped-down Land Rover with another lad called Dave Brunswick. We held our SLRs vertically in our hands with the butts resting on the floor. Our driver was Punchy Newton and our section commander was Sergeant Pip Rowland.
‘OK you lot,’ he said as he pored over the maps. ‘Turn your gas plugs around the other way and load-up those five rounds into your magazine. But keep it in your pouch until I say different.’
I was surprised. ‘But the OC said we shouldn’t load-up the rounds in our magazine and we had to keep them separate.’
‘Hey, just do what you’re told. The OC is only covering his own arse. If some son-of-a-bitch pulls a gun on us out there today, I want you lot ready to take the bastard’s head off at a moment’s notice, and I don’t care who it is – man, woman or child, OK?’ I felt stunned for half a moment but we all said, ‘OK, no problem,’ at the same time.
‘Also, when we set off, hold your weapons in the “ready” position’ – that was, butt in the shoulder with barrel pointing down – ‘and keep your eyes open. If we’re going in, let’s look the business and maybe those Paddies will leave us alone,’ Pip muttered.
Pip Rowland had been in the Army for many years and had spent plenty of time in quite a few conflict zones around the world. Everyone in the company respected him and we always jumped at his command. Back at Colchester some months earlier, at the end of a company dinner party, slightly inebriated, I slipped away to try to find a taxi to take a group of us back to camp. I had no luck, but I did notice an old GPO van parked up with the keys still in the ignition. Not long after, I turned up in it to take everyone home. But Pip persuaded me to take it back where I got it from before the cops nicked me for (a) theft of the van, (b) drunk driving (this strange new law had come in about 18 months back) and (c) driving without a licence and insurance. After a few moments of reflection I saw his point and returned the van just where I’d found it.
The reason for turning our gas plugs round the opposite way was that if any of us did get in a situation where we opened fire, we could only discharge a single round. Then we would have to re-cock the weapon manually. Normally the 7.62 SLR reloads itself after each round. The weapon is gas operated and cocks the working parts back by means of a gas rod and spring in a cylinder on top of the barrel. When a round is fired, some of the exploding gases pass up through a gas vent in the barrel into the gas chamber. This in turn drives the gas rod back like a car piston, forcing back the breech block (working parts) to feed a fresh round into the breech ready to fire. It all happens in a split-second. If the gas plug is turned round the opposite way from the normal position, the gas chamber is closed and all the exploding gases pass directly out of the barrel and the weapon will not re-cock itself.
It was 13:00 hrs and we’d all been sitting there for three hours just waiting, when the CSM appeared. ‘OK you lads,’ he told us. ‘Get away and grab some lunch, we’re leaving at 14:00 hrs … and don’t be late back. I want you all here and ready to go by 13:45 hrs.’
At 14.00 hrs we started up our vehicles, which burst deafeningly into life with clouds of exhaust fumes all around. As we set off from Sea Eagle there were quite a few of the Navy lads watching and looking concerned, giving us the thumbs up as we drove out through the gates. I remember thinking that we must have looked really fearsome that day with our vehicles all stripped down like some gladiatorial fighting patrol from the Long Range Desert Group – precursor of the SAS – setting off on a top secret mission behind enemy lines.
The drive into the city centre only took about half an hour and then we turned onto and across the Foyle Bridge towards the northern side of the river. The entire population on the streets was looking at us, neither smiling nor waving, just staring, perhaps a little surprised to see us driving along in convoy looking aggressive, with everyone carrying weapons at ‘The Ready’. I was feeling some apprehension, as I’m sure my friends also were, especially going over that Foyle Bridge. While we were on the south side of the river I didn’t feel too bad, but after crossing the water we seemed to be totally alone, totally exposed, heading into the ‘Badlands’, probing deep into unknown enemy territory. It was really scary for everyone, not just me.
As it happened, this day, August 14th turned out to be quite a significant one, as it was the first time in perhaps hundreds of years that British forces had been deployed on the streets of Britain on internal security operations. I didn’t know it at the time but I was taking part in an historical event that people would be talking about for many years to come.
After we reached the far side of the bridge we slowly weaved our way through the streets, passing quite a few burned-out houses and more people simply standing and staring. We made our way along the Embankment to Foyle Street and then onto Bishop Street, en route to the ‘area of responsibility’ that had been allocated to us earlier. There were still plenty of people around outside, but none of them appeared threatening to us as we made our way up to Bishops Gate, an ancient gateway in the old city wall which overlooks Bogside.
While we parked and started to unload our equipment in a backstreet near the gate, a friend came over and said, ‘One of the guys in the other Land Rover lost his gas plug when he was turning it round as we passed over the bridge. The gas rod, spring and plug flew out of his hand and the plug went bouncing across the road.’
‘He’ll have to just leave the gas rod and spring out and use the SLR as it is,’ I said. ‘It’ll be OK. He’ll just lose a fraction of its power if he fires it.’
Soon after, we settled in and the CSM walked over.
‘Make yourselves comfortable, lads, this is your new home for the next five weeks.’
I looked at Pip Rowland and said, ‘Where do we sleep?’
‘You sleep over there by the corner of that wall. I hope you don’t snore because I’ll be sleeping next to you.’
The area around Bishops Gate was in an elevated position of the city with a low ‘battlement’ type of wall. In places you can look over the battlements into the streets some 20 feet below. This walkway section of the wall was now to be our home for the foreseeable. We had our sleeping-bags and we erected our waterproof capes to use as lean-to bivouacs to give us some cover at night. Luckily it was August and the weather wasn’t too bad during our stay. It was months later that old warehouses and mills were taken over, to be used as troops’ living accommodation for the many years to follow.
Later that afternoon, the CSM got the platoon together and gave us a briefing:
‘Until further notice you’ll all be based here and what I need you to do is this: During day and night hours, cover the Bishops Gate archway entrance’ – he pointed at his map – ‘with a guard of four men. Also, I want a two-man OP [observation post] set up in the old library building opposite with an A41 radio, checking in every half hour. And at night, I want you to send out five-man listening patrols to this area, through the other side of the gateway.’
He slowly looked around at each of us. ‘If you come across any suspicious characters, you’re allowed to search them and confiscate anything you feel can be used as a weapon. You can also send any suspicious people back to their own side if they are trying to cross through the gateway.’
/> During the next week or so we did see some gangs of youths chasing individuals through the streets but none of them came near us except once, after about 10 days. Four of us saw a group of around 200 youths running up the street directly towards us.
As they drew closer our patrol commander, Corporal Geoff Napinski, shouted ‘Fix bayonets!’ and without hesitation the four of us did exactly that. We just stood there side by side, facing the approach of the angry mob. But suddenly they turned left into a side street, chasing a lone man running in front of the group, and within moments they were gone. We stood there for a while, bayonets fitted, looking at each other in amazement. Again, this must have been another first: British troops, fixing bayonets on British soil in an aggressive stance.
Many things were going through my mind during that incident. Later, I asked myself, ‘Would I have used my bayonet if we were attacked?’ The answer was yes, for sure I would have and without any hesitation. I was scared to my wits end standing there, watching that crowd getting closer and no way would I have run for it, or just stood there to be mowed down by some crazed mob. My job was to protect myself and my three friends, together with the rest of my platoon, and I know they would have protected me just the same.
On another occasion, again on guard duty, with three others at the Bishops Gate entrance, a couple of youths about my age approached us and demanded to go through the Gate. Punchy Newton was doing the talking and trying to reason with them.
‘Sorry lads, you’ll have to go back, we can’t let you through.’ I was covering his back, just a metre or so behind and to his right.
The Irish lads became agitated; they were arguing and demanding to go over to the Catholic side. After more discussion I could clearly see Punchy wasn’t impressed. I think the youths also noticed this when Punchy moved closer to the leader of the two and tilted his head down a little, preparing to stick the ‘nut’ on the bridge of the kid’s nose. Both of them quickly backed off, fully aware that being nutted by somebody wearing a steel helmet isn’t healthy. They were lucky and wise to back off. I’d once seen Punchy drop three guys in Colchester with his head, the last two before the first one had even hit the floor. Punchy was a great guy, but he wasn’t the type to mess or argue with, not even when he was sober.