MRF Shadow Troop

by Simon Cursey

  By early to the middle of March, we were all packed and ready. Before we departed, we were told to make out a will and pack away all the equipment we planned to leave behind, just in case we didn’t come back, so no-one else had to pack it for us. This time we flew from Germany direct to Aldergrove International Airport, just outside Belfast.

  On our arrival the first thing we noticed, as we climbed off the plane, was that the security level was much higher than the last time. The whole place was heaving with armed police and troops all over the airport. And the car park outside was full of armoured vehicles known as ‘Pigs’ because that’s what they looked like from the front. Also, parked alongside, were some other larger vehicles which we learned were Saracen AFVs (Armoured Fighting Vehicles). It was as if we had arrived in a war zone.

  The CSM told us, ‘OK lads, these vehicles are ours. Get yourselves into your sections, check your equipment – then the vehicles for UIEDs [under-vehicle improvised explosive devices], and get on board. We’ll be setting off for our base location in 15 minutes.’

  We left the airport spread out in platoon convoys and as we passed through it, Belfast looked totally different to how it appeared in 1969. The whole central area of the city was fenced off with high metal-railing fences. All the entrances were heavily guarded by armed troops, who were checking cars and pedestrians wishing to enter the restricted areas. We also all noticed the heavy presence of police and troops patrolling the streets, some on foot and others in armoured vehicles, which included ‘Pigs’ and armoured Land Rovers. Something clearly was not going too well here.

  Our location turned out to be a ship on the quayside near Sydenham on the outskirts of Belfast, and was to be our home for the next four months. We offloaded the vehicles and spent the next day or so settling in and unpacking our gear. This was followed with many briefings on our ‘area of responsibility’ and the characters we would be looking out for.

  Within a couple of days we were out and about, regularly patrolling the streets and checking the areas where we’d be setting up regular VCPs. We did have some other guard duties to cover but they were only at a few locations near to our base and didn’t involve me.

  Chapter Two – The Call to Special Duties

  The year was 1972 and the Army found itself committed to a long, hard military slog. Terrorist activity was growing rapidly throughout the Province and the politicians and military commanders were beginning to face some of the greatest challenges of their careers. We had just experienced ‘Bloody Sunday’ in Londonderry, involving the Parachute Regiment, from which horrendous political and legal consequences would follow for decades. Escalating hatred had taken a grip of the Protestant and Catholic communities and they were isolating themselves behind barricades. Intimidation and tension were rife, while armed terrorists were moving freely around the city streets indiscriminately killing and maiming. The fight for control was between the IRA and the British government. The British Army was under no illusion that it couldn’t afford to lose the struggle.

  Apart from the daily coverage of the troubles in Northern Ireland, the news on the mainland was full of the miners’ strike. With the power cuts that ensued, these were quite literally dark days (or nights). The strike began that January and seemed in harmony with the other grim economic news of unemployment levels topping a million, the highest since the 1930s. British Steel made closures at Newport and Gwent, shedding 1300 jobs, while the Port of London announced the loss of 2000 dockworkers, and there was the loss of 1600 jobs at GEC. The country was in a mess and Northern Ireland was the kind of thorn in its side that Britain could have done without. That’s not to forget the petrol shortage we were suffering, to such an extent that UK speed limits had been reduced in an attempt to save energy. Gangs were actually stealing – siphoning – gasoline from the tanks of parked cars.

  I had only recently arrived in Ulster from a two-year tour abroad and my parent unit had just taken over from another in Belfast. It was March but there was still an early morning winter chill in the air and I had felt it, having been out on the streets on uniformed patrols quite a few times already. These covered the general areas around Sydenham, and in towards the city centre.

  Like my other Ulster visits, first in Londonderry when it all started in 1969 and then later in Belfast in 1970, this one was just another usual run-of-the-mill regular four-month tour, securing one of the areas of Belfast. Little did I know at the time, but this one was going to turn out to be far different than I had expected. It was also going to change my life and my personality and was to last, all told, for a hell of a lot longer than two years.

  Within only a few weeks of being in Northern Ireland I was, unusually, called in from one the patrols, which is known as a ‘brick’ due to the usual four-man formation. Together with a handful of other guys from my Battalion, I was required to turn up for interview at our company HQ. None of us knew why: we were simply notified that we had to be there. Like everyone else, I automatically worried that I had done something wrong, or that the OC wanted some lads for a dirty job. I reassured myself that everything must be OK, because my slate was quite clean and I was never normally in any trouble. I generally kept in the background and stayed out of the usual sort of squaddie nonsense, but nonetheless I was wondering what might be up. I dropped off my cleaned and checked weapon at the armoury, dumped my helmet and webbing on my bed and made my way with a couple of others to Company HQ. We adjusted our berets as we walked there, slightly nervously.

  On arrival, lined up outside the CSM’s office, we all looked at each other, still wondering what on earth was going on. I knew two of the guys in the line, who were in my company, but the three others were from another section. We had to stand and wait there for about half an hour before the CSM turned up, and I spent most of that time listening to someone’s radio in the accommodation area across the way belting out recent hits like John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ and ‘Power to the People’, which had been floating around the charts for the last few months. Just before the CSM arrived The Doors were singing a great song, ‘Riders on the Storm’, which I felt suited the occasion, standing there in apprehension and having no idea what was going on.

  Some passing friends were making the usual sarcastic comments. ‘You’re in the shit now,’ said one, with an evil grin. ‘What have you lot been up to, then?’ asked another chap, and I honestly would have loved to be able to tell him.

  One by one, we were ‘wheeled in’, as they say.

  Straight away the CSM surprised me. ‘Close the door and sit down,’ he said mildly. You what? ‘Nobody sits in the Company Sergeant Major’s office except myself and Prince Phillip,’ he often used to take great joy in announcing; so to say his comment took me by surprise would be the understatement of the century. But more was to come. He looked me up and down in CSM fashion: ‘You, corporal, have been singled out from the rest of the battalion. An opportunity has arisen to join a specialist unit which has recently been formed. They’re looking for suitable recruits and we thought of you.’ I must have looked puzzled. ‘Don’t ask me why. I don’t know very much about it, but it’s a plain clothes unit operating in Ulster and if you are selected, the tour will be for around two or three years.’ It was quite a short interview, hardly an interview at all, really. At the end of his little speech he just asked, ‘Are you interested?’

  I was intrigued and my head was buzzing with the phrase, ‘plain clothes’. That would mean no more freezing-cold patrols, I thought. I was intrigued but I acted a little cagey. ‘Yes, I’m interested, but I would like to know a little more about it, sir,’ I told him. That there might be a range of dangers involved in being out of uniform didn’t register with me at all at this point; and the reasons I might be considered suitable never entered my head. I was just instantly excited by the prospect of getting involved in something different to the usual routine.

  ‘OK,’ said the CSM, ‘the OC will see you tomorrow and fill you in with a few more details.’ On that note,
he jutted his chin in the direction of the door. ‘Send in the next man, will you,’ which I did.

  Outside, with Land Rovers across the way roaring around, and over the sounds of Rod Stewart grinding out ‘Maggie May’, the others asked me, ‘What’s it all about, Sy?’

  I wasn’t so sure myself, but already I knew it was good enough that I didn’t want to give them any advantage over me, so I said, ‘Oh, you’ll find out soon enough,’ and left them to think on their feet when they went in. All’s fair in love and war.

  The next day we all turned up, slightly less nervously, for interview with the OC-CC (Officer Commanding-Company Commander) and again were sent in one by one. Again I was politely asked to remove my beret and sit, while the OC prepared to give out a few more details. Self-consciously, I pulled up a chair and shuffled into position in front of him. I felt a little apprehensive as he spent a few moments looking over some papers; and with the tiniest squint and inclination of my head I saw that they were my Army records and reports. I felt myself craning forward, so I made an effort to sit back and stop fidgeting and concentrated on looking relaxed – which I was not – while he flipped over the pages.

  ‘If you are selected for this new unit, you will be operating undercover in Belfast,’ he paused thoughtfully. ‘Mainly.’

  ‘The unit will be only 35 to 40 strong and you’ll be involved in photography and surveillance operations.’ I must have looked a bit baffled. Photography was not one of my specialisms. I was a weapons instructor.

  ‘It’s a special unit,’ he explained, ‘looking for … special people, volunteers to be put forward for selection.’ There was another pause. ‘And I have earmarked you to go forward for the job.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’ It all sounded great but still very sketchy and vague to me.

  All the time I had a strange feeling from both the CSM and the OC that they were softening us up for something, and memories of my brother saying ‘cannon fodder’ drifted through my mind. I didn’t care too much about that, though, because the more I thought about it, the more it sounded like a great shot at something new and exciting: as long as I kept my head clear, my eyes open and everything in perspective, I should be OK. It was, in the end, a voluntary job and I could get dumped or dump it myself if I didn’t want to go on with the selection process.

  ‘This unit,’ he fixed me with his eye, ‘has been formed to literally take the fight to the IRA, right in his own back yard.’

  Little did I know how true those words would turn out to be and I often thought of them during the following two or three years.

  The OC elaborated: ‘The unit requires people with certain attributes. A spotless military record. At least three years’ Army infantry service. Two to three tours of Ulster and excellent military skills background.’ Military skills meant shooting, weapon handling, field-craft, first aid, signals and communications – I was an instructor for most of them, and fitted all the other requirements, which had certainly narrowed down the field a good bit.

  The list of qualifications seemed endless and I just sat there silently taking it all in. The most bewildering part was when the OC began to mention personal qualities, (‘… you must be quiet, methodical, and have the ability to work alone and under pressure …’). I was told that the successful volunteer would need to be self-motivated, have no visible marks or tattoos, be of average height and weight and have brown hair. Considering all that, I thought it would be a miracle if they found even 30 of us. It occurred to me that they should maybe give Clark Kent a call.

  The more he talked on, the more complex it seemed and the less I understood this ‘thing-organisation-unit’ or whatever it was. But I stayed keen and wanted to know more. I felt it was something important, highly secret, and I wanted to be a part of it.

  The OC ended his interview saying that he felt I was one of the few people that fitted the required profile. ‘What are your feelings about it?’

  ‘I would like to know a few more details of what the unit is actually involved in, Sir,’ I replied simply. ‘But I am very interested.’

  The OC appeared pleased. ‘I’ll be in touch, but in the meantime you must not discuss this interview with anyone that’s uninvolved, understood?’

  Later, the six of us all got together in the cook-house over a brew of tea and a large portion of steak, chips and peas, to air our thoughts about this ‘new unit’. Forty years on I still remember finishing off the meal with treacle pudding and custard. (I’ve always had a sweet tooth and love my sticky puddings. My older brother still gives me a big tin of Quality Street every Christmas – strange what the memory retains.)

  Some friends came around our table, trying to join us and asking questions. ‘What’s going on, then? What are you up to?’ As ordered, we said nothing – but then we didn’t know very much about it ourselves. There were mixed feelings within our group of selectees; some were very keen, some not sure and some, like me, who were keen but wanted to know more about exactly what we were being drawn into.

  My father had been in the Army, in fact a despatch rider in North Africa during World War Two, and he ended up in Austria by the end of the war. He was a small guy, very quiet, but adored his cars and bikes, and I always had a lot of time for him. I often helped him tinker with his motor whenever I was home on leave. He always used to say, when I first joined up, that I should never volunteer for anything: it was life-preserving, combat-troop wisdom from an all-engulfing conflict in which the price of a life fell almost to zero. I must admit, I thought about what Dad had said and was a little sceptical to start with, but later I began to feel more and more that my selection was a great opportunity to do something special and more interesting than just basic soldiering. There was a fork in the road and I took it.

  I had spent just over two years as a junior leader in an Infantry Junior Leader Battalion and then another three years plus with my regular battalion. Altogether, I had served more than five years, mostly being attached to a Support Weapons Company (which is an infantry heavy weapons company). With youth comes ambition, and I think I was probably ready for a change.

  I spent more than a week, thinking intensely about my possible future before I heard anything more.

  Abruptly, the CSM called us all in to his office again. ‘You all have to go to the adjutant’s office at Battalion Head Quarters tomorrow for more interviews,’ he announced. ‘So,’ I thought, ‘Things are happening and starting to move forward.’ I began to grow excited. The next day we were again lined up, expecting to be interviewed by the adjutant or someone of a similar rank. The adjutant was a nice chap, always friendly and very helpful. He duly emerged from his office, checked we were all present, then walked across the hall to another office.

  On this occasion we were all split up and put in different rooms. Mine was bare except for a table and a single empty chair for me. I sat before two strangers who didn’t seem like Army types. They were both slim, unimposing men in dark suits and collar-length hair. They began without ceremony by asking lots of questions, really digging deep into my background, often in quite an aggressive and forceful way. Although physically unthreatening to me, I distinctly felt their authority, and it was a bit intimidating.

  The adjutant was there with me for a while, standing at the back of the room, out of the way and acting as an observer. This interview lasted for almost two hours of question after question; questions about my father, my mother, my brother and my personal background; demands for my views on a variety of subjects, such as politics; what interested me, what didn’t; what I liked, what I didn’t. On and on it went, relentlessly. They even asked me which newspapers and books I read. Why this? Why not that? I didn’t know it at the time but we were all interviewed simultaneously in different offices with different people and they’d gone through all six of us in a couple of hours. It appeared they wanted to get the interviews over with as soon as possible, for some reason or other.

  At this stage, very little was given away of what we would b
e doing in this new unit. They made it very clear that they were the guys who were asking the questions.

  All they really said was, ‘Its name is the MRF.’ That is, Military Reaction Force, to those who know anything about it. But people outside the loop, (most of the Army, press and police) have given it different names over the years since then: Military Reconnaissance Force or Mobile Reconnaissance Force; but it doesn’t really matter. Creating confusion and misinformation suited them just fine.

  All this didn’t really mean much to me. The men who interviewed us simply reiterated much of what we had already been told by our OC a week or so earlier. They even refused to show me any ID at the beginning of the interview, which I asked to see before I would speak to them.

  When I asked them to prove who they were I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the adjutant was smiling. I think he was amused by my request and gave me an approving nod. ‘It’s OK to speak to these people, Corporal Cursey, they’re on our side,’ he told me. If it was OK with him then it was OK with me.

  The overall selection process continued to take the form of many interviews – or interrogations – over a further couple of weeks. These started at my parent unit level and then progressed to daily interviews and aptitude tests with people I later realised were selection staff from Military Intelligence. These later interviews appeared to be an in-depth psychological assessment and profiling. The kind of things I had to do included puzzle solving, similar to the sort of thing you see on ITV’s The Krypton Factor, but not quite so sophisticated. Initially the puzzles were quite simple but became more difficult as we went on, with time limits added. Gradually the time limits grew tighter and tighter until it was impossible to complete the tasks.