by Simon Cursey
In 1974-75, I was a corporal, pushing sergeant. Being quite well qualified in most things military, I was approaching a good position and would probably be ready to move up – to perhaps go for sergeant major (WO II) in the following few years or so.
And yet … promotion, medals and commendations during my time in the MRF hadn’t been a real priority to any of us and we were usually far too busy, occupied on the streets of Belfast every day, to even think about such things. We never wore uniform and never referred to each other by rank, so all that regimental stuff had been left behind in a different life – or it had been until now.
Most of my old friends from my parent unit had already been promoted and gone off to do other things in the Army. I was left in a situation where I had to make a whole group of new friends, usually much younger and less experienced than me. Then, after a period of drifting from one job to another within my unit, and also a broken marriage, I began to feel that it was about time for me to leave the Army to pursue other interests, away from Army life.
Looking back at it – my sense of disjointedness and my difficulty in communicating, a slight air of depression – there would in modern terms probably be some diagnosis of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), although I have to say that it never felt like anything so dramatic to me. I guess I had been through a lot, had killed and seen my friends killed, and been wounded myself … I was hardened but now I was alone, or at least isolated. I think my way of dealing with it was reasonable and sane. I eventually left the Army and decided to get on with my life outside it.
A year or two before my Army discharge in late 1977, I toyed for some time with an idea one of the other guys I was working with gave me. Some ‘civilian’ security organisation was looking for ex-forces, Army people. They were recruiting for experienced soldiers to go out to Angola on security duties, training the locals in most things military. The money seemed to be quite good and I spent a few weeks carrying around and now and again looking at the application form, seriously thinking of going. However, I eventually decided against it, thinking I’d had enough of Army life and that it was time to start thinking of a total change.
A few months later in June 1976, the TV news and Press was full of the coverage of the trial of a group of 13 mercenaries, ten of them British ex-Army, who had been captured in Angola during the civil war that was raging there.
At the end of the trial, three Britons and an American were sentenced to death by firing squad, while the others on trial received prison sentences ranging from 16 to 30 years.
It made me shudder. Obviously, I was glad that I decided not to go to Angola, especially with what sounded like a bunch of psychos running around killing each other. At the time of the advertisement, all that was mentioned was that it was security/training work in Angola. The words ‘mercenary’ or ‘fighting’ were never mentioned – but it was the same job all right.
As it turned out, a few months before my discharge I was looking forward to a new life as a civilian and getting settled into a job as a sports centre manager.
As a civilian I remained on Reserve service and did suffer a short spell of post-traumatic stress which I think did make me quite touchy, snappy and difficult. It was the subtle things that were most difficult to shake – the things that training had bred into me. I couldn’t even sit in a pub with my back to the windows or door for many years. I also used to get panicky caught up in heavy traffic, constantly trying to make some space and looking for escape routes left and right, in case of an ‘imaginary’ attempted hijack. During the first year or so after my discharge, I was drinking quite heavily and found I had to have a few drinks before I could sleep at night. This wasn’t because of nightmares, quite the contrary, it was just that I needed something to dim my mind to relax enough to drop off. My work in the MRF never gave me nightmares. But the stress didn’t last too long and I managed to pull myself out of it without too much trouble. You had to in those days.
It was soon after my discharge, in 1978, that I was approached by the Military because of my infantry-MRF background. In short, I was invited to join the Reservists, which I felt might be interesting, and could include a bit of free travel together ‘keeping my hand in’ when I wanted to. I had to go through the entire grading process again up to Sergeant’s Qualification (SQ), which I didn’t particularly find a problem.
During the 1980s and 1990s, after moving on from the sports centre, I spent many years self-employed, running my own company. I was again working virtually alone, or at the best with a small, select team, and generally felt much happier and contented.
I always kept up to date with the Ulster troubles and the characters I used to chase after, years earlier.
However, I began to feel a little uncomfortable when quite a few years ago, the Government started letting out of prison convicted terrorist killers so they could spend their Christmases at home with their families. This was the government’s way of trying to build bridges and creating some peace in the province. Be nice to the bad guys.
Then again, later, they decided to release all the killers in exchange for the handing in and decommissioning of weapons, in an attempt finally to bring The Troubles to an end. Years later, bombs are still going off, people are being shot and we’re still waiting to see all the weapons handed in.
The Army should have been allowed to go in hard and stop it in the beginning in 1970-71. I’m sure it could have been done in those early days, before the IRA managed to properly organise themselves. Looking back to what it was like in 1972-75, I also feel sure that very many lives could have been saved, including those of three good friends of mine.
A few years ago, after selling up and closing my UK company, I decided to move abroad to Europe, where I live today. But before I left I took a couple of years off and didn’t do very much except for helping one or two friends in building their own companies. I also took on a couple of home-study courses, one of which was a course in photojournalism (I already had some expertise with cameras, courtesy of the MRF). After passing the 12-month course I worked part-time in the UK for a while as a freelance photographer, doing work for some local companies. Eventually, after moving abroad, this linked in with a variety of commercial surveillance and security work that I have been involved in, on and off, for the last ten or 12 years.
When I left the UK in 1994 I spent some time just chilling out and toured around southern France and Spain for a while, enjoying the sunshine, beer, water-sports and sailing before moving to Italy. In Italy I carried on and developed my photojournalism, finding work in both writing and photography for travel and sports magazines, covering the areas of Italy, France and Austria.
Now, during the summer months, I work around the north Italian coast and the marinas. In the winter, I spend a couple of months in Austria and France photographing skiing and other winter-sports events.
I live in a nice little cottage with a large garden in a peaceful mountain village, overlooking a wonderful lake with a majestic mountainous backdrop. It’s very quiet, peaceful and idyllic, with a couple of village bars and friendly locals.
So I’m away from Britain, a country which I feel has to some extent let us all down. I dedicated many years of my life hunting terrorists and trying to protect the innocent. The Army and government used us and the best years of our lives, only to let all the terrorists free with dubious results, and I sometimes sit and think to myself, ‘Why did we bother?’
In some ways being in the MRF ruined my life, but in others it made my life, even changing my personality more than once – which can be difficult to handle for some people. For sure it ruined me in my Army career, which I was originally quite happy to stay in for the full 22 years.
But on the other hand, the MRF gave me a very strong sense of loyalty, duty and determination. I used all the skills I learned in the Army when I joined the MRF, and all the skills I learned in the MRF, I often use now.
I’m sure that working undercover in a place like Belfast with o
nly a few days’ vacation in almost three years made me a better person. Thinking back, during my time in the MRF, we all had a strong sense of caring for each other. We constantly watched each other’s backs, we all got along very well and none of us ever argued or got into fights within the sections. We were treated, and acted, like grown-ups. We were all like-minded, and we cared for the innocent people of Northern Ireland.
I now enjoy a trouble-free, peaceful life. I don’t limp anymore, but my knee does give me a little discomfort sometimes, mainly when walking down hills or steps; but it’s nothing I can’t cope with.
And if ever I was approached and asked to go back and do it all again, I’m sure I would be tempted – I would go for the crack. I still have that fire in me and I doubt that I would change a thing. We had to think on our feet in those early days and it would be great to be out on the streets again with Kev, Tug, John, Colin, Dave, Ben and Mike. They were all close, good friends at that time, highly trained, totally professional and very brave dedicated soldiers.
Thinking back, it felt like we were all effectively licensed to kill for that short time, dodging in and out of the shadowy murky streets, spying on and hunting down terrorist murderers. But to be realistic, we are all far too old for that kind of thing now and I have absolutely no idea where many of the others are today, or even if they are still alive. And I don’t think it would be a very good idea to call an MRF reunion … we might still get some unwelcome terrorist guests.
We were a totally new concept, a prototype test unit, in those early days. We were ‘pathfinders’ and ‘hunters of men’, during that lawless era of 1970s Belfast, developing techniques which were, over the years, fine-tuned and streamlined, and improved with the help of modern technology. It’s quite possible that the MRF was the original or one of the original counter-terrorism units (CTUs) of modern times. The German police at the Munich Olympics in 1972 certainly didn’t have much idea of how to handle their terrorist attack, and the SAS counter-terrorist unit was first seen to be deployed at the Iranian Embassy in London only in 1980, nine years after us in the MRF.
What was originally the Military Reaction Force appeared to later evolved into ‘14 Intelligence Company’, ‘14 Company’ or just simply ‘The Det’ (from ‘detachment’) – even, perhaps today by some other obscure name such as the Special Reconnaissance Regiment (SRR). Who really knows? The world of Intelligence and Special Operations is a very murky one, where nothing is totally black and white, but just hundreds of shades of grey.
The MRF was a top secret Special Operations CTU which didn’t appear officially to exist on paper at that time, but was acknowledged much later in Parliament in March 1994. It was made up of specially selected volunteers from many arms of the Armed Forces and trained in covert, secret undercover operations and surveillance. The name, the faces, the training and role may have changed over the years but the basic organisation and many of the original methods are very much the same. And as far as I know, the unit is much larger now than it ever was in my day and is operational in all corners of the world.
In those chaotic early days, we were little more than a big handful of highly trained and motivated guys, armed to the teeth and sent down into the city in civilian cars, on specific operations – to kick arse. And we surely kicked plenty of bad arses.
I feel that if I ever did go back over to Ulster, one day, in the very distant future, I would take a long walk around the city centre. I would smile, thinking of that guy we chased around the City Hall square, with our cars on the pavement while everyone around us scattered and dived for cover.
Perhaps I’d pop in and have a coffee in that Hotel, perhaps sit at the same table and think back to what it was like over 40 years ago when Kev and I gave the shivers to those two RUC detectives who smugly thought they had breached our security.
Then I’d take a stroll down the Falls Road and take a look at our old Army OP, ‘Oscar 1’, before heading off to the North Howard Street hill. We all spent hours and hours just sitting there, waiting to get the call and race out onto the Falls Road to grab or shoot some unsuspecting bad boy terrorist.
Then I’d wander past that shop – if it’s still there – perhaps buy a sandwich or coffee, thinking of the time Mike and I dashed in and grabbed the wrong guy, and then ran back in to drag out our real ‘Foxtrot’.
On the Falls Road up ahead on the right, I would pass the back street where Colin dropped those two players, one of which was our ‘Charlie’ who was wanted for questioning.
Later, making my way further along the Falls Road, on the left, I would walk by the streets where my friend was beaten, thrown into the cellar and shot – and also the street I ‘got it’ in the knee and Kev lifted me up like a rag doll and carried me off. A hundred metres further, on the right hand side was where Bob was murdered while in the car with me.
Even today I can still see the big cheesy smile and bushy hair and beard of my very good and brave friend Ted Stuart, of the Four Square Laundry. I would recall, again, how he was shot to death in his van on Juniper Park, Dunmurry, on the far side of Andersonstown.
After passing the Royal Victoria Hospital I’d reach the St James’s estate on the left where I fired across the face of Tug, my driver, while Kev in the back seat blasted the group of players, on the corner, through the back of the car window with his SMG.
Finally, a little further on the left, entering Andersonstown, I’d walk into Milltown cemetery, thinking of those good friends of mine that didn’t make it and were murdered, left behind. I would take a long casual look around the cemetery, which is now the permanent home to so many IRA terrorists. I’d be searching for the old, familiar, notorious names – the names of those evil terrorist killers of women and babies who didn’t really deserve the right to life … and then I’d piss on them.
Appendix - Glossary
V check
Vehicle legitimacy check
IRA
Irish Republican Army (Provos - PIRA)
ASU
Active Service Unit (IRA - PIRA)
9 millie
9 mm Browning pistol
SMG
Sterling – Submachine Gun
Round
Bullet
Snap
Food
HQ
Headquarters
Players
Terrorists
SAS
Special Air Service (British Special Forces)
SBS
Special Boat Service or Squadron (British Special Forces)
Paras
Parachute Regiment
SB Boys
Special Branch
Op
Operation
OP
Observation Post
CP/CPP
Close Protection/Close personal protection (bodyguard)
RV
Rendezvous (meeting point)
SIB
Special Investigation Branch (military SB)
UVF
Ulster Volunteer Force (protestant terror group)
UFF
Ulster Freedom Fighters (protestant terror group)
UDA
Ulster Defence Association (protestant group)
Mossad
Israeli secret service
Delta Force
US Special Forces
ATO
Ammunition technical officer ‘Felix’
RUC
Royal Ulster Constabulary
CSM
Company Sergeant Major
OC
Officer Commanding – company commander of over 90 men.
MRF
Military Reaction Force
Images
About the Author
Simon Cursey, joined the British Army at the age of 15, direct from school. By the time he was 19, he was an NCO in an infantry unit and travelled to Canada, Africa and most of Europe. When he was 21, he was singled out, selected and trained for a covert, undercover, counter-terrorist unit; the long-de
nied Military Reaction Force (MRF) which was a short lived British Military Intelligence counter-terrorist unit, formed in the most dramatic period of The Troubles in Northern Ireland, from 1971 to 1974. Influenced by friends, Simon decided to write this book because of the years of lies and misinformation surrounding the MRF and its activities, also to honour the brave men he had the pleasure to work alongside. After his time in the MRF and a few difficult years adjusting back into uniform, Simon decided to leave the British Army to follow other interests and now lives in a peaceful Alpine village in Italy.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Contents
Introduction by the editor
Foreword by Simon Cursey
Prologue
Chapter One – The Wall
Chapter Two – The Call to Special Duties
Chapter Three – Fired-Up and Fine-Tuned
Chapter Four – Covert Whispers
Chapter Five – Blue on Blue
Chapter Six – Duck, Dash, Get Down
Chapter Seven – Lucky to Escape Alive
Chapter Eight – Lying in Wait
Chapter Nine – Firing on Automatic
Chapter Ten – First, Fast and Furious
Chapter Eleven - A Faceless Enemy
Chapter Twelve – Cut It Off and Kill It
Chapter Thirteen – Hunters of Men
Appendix - Glossary
Images