by Robert White
In my darkest moments, I imagined Verdi’s burgeoning criminal empire growing steadily under the noses of the sluggish detectives in town. I knew how clever and scheming the Dogs were and couldn’t help but feel that the powers that be were simply underestimating their propensity for villainy.
Was I obsessed with Verdi and crew? Well if so, as with most obsessive behaviour, it is chronic. It creeps up on you and slowly eats away at your organs until you can’t stand the pain anymore.
I somehow knew my fixation would catch up with me eventually. But in the early eighties, I had it under control… just.
* * *
If news of The Three Dogs was infrequent, the same was not to be said about Jamie Strange. I had regular drinks with his father Harry, found him to be good company and a great friend. He kept me abreast of his son’s progress with a mixture of military pride and a parent’s concern.
Jamie had returned to camp after Laurie had ditched him for Frankie Verdi; something incidentally that Harry was not too unhappy about, confiding that he had never really taken to the girl.
His son had travelled with 40 Commando to Cyprus and had enjoyed almost five months of sunshine and tactical training, before returning home for a fortnight’s leave.
Once home, he’d met up with old friends, but had never mentioned Laurie. Harry was keen that this remained the case, his son seeming happy again.
Harry had been concerned that Jamie would be posted to Northern Ireland soon after, but his son somehow avoided this difficult and dangerous job. Instead he returned to Norton Manor, 40 Commando’s new home, to train as a sniper.
As the new year dragged itself from winter to spring and with Thatcher in real danger of losing the next election, we declared war on Argentina, over a group of islands no one had ever heard of.
On 6th April 1982, Jamie Strange, along with three hundred and forty-nine other Royal Marine Commandos set sail from HNMB Davenport, for the Falklands.
They were aboard the troop carrier RFA Sir Galahad.
On 24th May, the ship entered San Carlos Water, the area that had become known as “bomb alley”.
The captain’s intention was to deploy twenty-five SBS troops, supported by Royal Marines from 40 Commando onto the shore. They would engage the Argentine forces made up from combat team Güemes, located at Fanning Head.
The land battle was unremarkable; the Argentines having no stomach for the fight.
It was the clash in the air and from the sea that grabbed the headlines. As the troops were returning to ship, the air war raged, and The Sir Galahad was struck by a 1000 lb bomb. Miraculously, it failed to detonate.
40 Commando removed the lethal device and floated it away on an inflatable boat packed with cornflakes packets for extra ballast. Bravery seemed to come as standard.
Even today, I remember vividly, the pictures and video of the battle for San Carlos Water that cost so many British lives.
It seemed that we became ghoulishly entertained by the news bulletins. Cops, civvies, traffic wardens, all huddled around the small television in the canteen watching the Harriers take off and land.
* * *
I recall 6th June like it was yesterday. My eldest had broken her wrist at school and they had called me to the hospital.
I had been drowning in work and felt truly exhausted. Starting my car, I tuned the radio to hear the news.
Jamie’s ship, The Sir Galahad, had been preparing to unload soldiers from the Welsh Guards in Port Pleasant, off Fitzroy. The troops were to support the Para’s and Commandos in the push to take Port Stanley.
She was attacked by three Argentine Skyhawks, each loaded with three 500 lb bombs. This time, The Sir Galahad was not so lucky. She was hit, the bombs exploded, and she was alight. The newsreader had no more information.
My heart went out to Harry. I thought of my girl, I could only imagine what he was going through.
A total of forty-eight soldiers and crewman were killed in the explosions and subsequent fire that day.
Reports later told us, that her captain, Philip Roberts, was the last to abandon ship.
He received a DSO.
It was four days before Harry received confirmation that Jamie was alive. He had been aboard during the attack and suffered shrapnel wounds to his back.
As the fires burned out of control, the remaining marine detachment began the evacuation of the injured and wounded.
Despite his considerable pain, Jamie helped organise the launch of life rafts from the bow of the ship. The actions of the few Royal Marines undoubtedly saved lives that day, though none were mentioned in dispatches.
I met Harry at his home on the night he got the news Jamie was safe. We drank toasts of Navy Rum to units and regiments I had never heard of.
My wife said she had never seen me so drunk.
Jamie was first airlifted back to Cyprus where his wounds were treated. Two weeks later, he was back at home on sick leave. I didn’t get the opportunity to see him. He didn’t leave the house and didn’t want visitors.
Harry later told me that the screams of the soldiers and sailors trapped below decks where the fires raged, haunted his son. Jamie blamed himself for not being able to rescue more of his comrades.
Harry, himself a veteran of the conflicts in Malaya and Aden, knew what war did to a man, and knew his son would never be the same.
Jamie returned to camp on 9th August, and as September brought autumn and darkening skies, his father’s worst fears were realised. Jamie Strange was to be posted to Crossmaglen, South Armagh; also known as “bandit country”.
CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday 11th January 1983. 40 Commando Fortified Observation Tower, Crossmaglen, South Armagh
“Hey Jamie! Look at the tits on that one.”
Dick, “The Birdman” Valance, was Jamie’s spotter. Snipers work in pairs, and Commando Richard Valance, was the cross that Jamie had to bear.
They were almost three months into their six-month tour and the tedium of life in bandit country was starting to get to everyone concerned.
Despite the atrocious weather, Dick had taken to spotting anything vaguely female, as opposed to members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, who were intent on killing them.
Jamie had a quick glance through his scope. The rain lashed the roof of the tower, making conversation difficult and spotting even harder.
“She’s sixty if she’s a day you fuckin’ moron!”
Dick lifted the powerful binoculars for a second look.
“I reckon fifty-five… she’s still got massive norks though eh?”
Jamie shook his head and smiled. Dick was a funny guy. He was a born and bred Londoner, but his parents had moved to Australia when he was seven. Bird therefore considered himself an Aussie. He was built like a rhino and had the same temperament. The two shared a mutual respect and toughness.
They also had plenty of banter about prison ships and cricket.
It helped pass the time.
Since their arrival at XMG as it was known amongst the lads, their days, and nights were split pretty evenly between the observation towers and patrolling.
The towers were designed to ensure that the PIRA boys didn’t leave any IEDs in the ditches around the police station and main roads leading in and out of town. The home-made devices being responsible for the deaths of dozens of soldiers and police officers.
Not that 40 Commando were allowed to use the roads for patrolling. Oh no, this was not an option. Soon as a Green Beret’s boots touched tarmac, the very friendly locals would be on the phone to the PIRA snipers.
Getting hit anywhere on your body by a .762 or .556 sniper round was not an option. It got you dead instantly. That or you bled out within minutes.
So, when patrolling, the Commandos were shipped out by helicopter to some godforsaken location in the midd
le of bandit country. Each marine carried somewhere between sixty and eighty pounds of kit and rations. Add weapons and ammunition, and you can imagine how cumbersome and slow a process it was.
Being unable to use even the roughest of dirt tracks or gateways, the units were forced to yomp through muddy fields, climb stone walls or push their way through fearsomely sharp hawthorn hedges.
Jamie and Dick normally returned from these often-pointless expeditions, knackered and with more scratches than an alley cat.
The freezing wind howled through the open slots in the tower. The rain had seeped into both marines’ uniforms. Jamie checked his watch. “Another hour and we’re out of here.”
Dick sat back and rubbed his eyes. “Thank fuck… I hate the tower. I’m piss wet through and frozen solid. My legs get all cramped up, and this time of day, your eyes start to play tricks.”
Jamie examined his colleague; his sharp grey eyes flashed as he grabbed the binos from him, “What tricks?”
Dick snatched them back and scanned the horizon. “Calm down Strange Brew, I didn’t see anythin’. I was just sayin’ that…”
Dick worked the focus wheel, “Motherfucker!”
Jamie instantly gripped his L96 sniper rifle, pushed in the magazine and slid the action forward, making the weapon ready to fire. He exhaled slowly, lowering his heart rate the way he had been trained. “Tell me the story Dickie boy.”
The spotter dropped his voice. No more comedy for today.
“Three hundred meters… two o’clock… the woman with the titties… ain’t no lady Strange Brew.”
Jamie moved slowly, deliberately. The weather would make any shot almost impossible over the distance. The wind howled left to right and the rain fell in sheets. He made minute adjustments to the Schmidt and Bender 6 x 42 telescopic sight.
“You sure it’s male?”
“Or my name ain’t Bird.”
The suspect had doubled back away from the tower and was walking toward a vehicle checkpoint, set up by the RUC five hundred yards along the road. The target passed an aging cart, seemingly abandoned at the side of the lane, casually removed his wig and pushed it inside his coat. As the suspect climbed under the green tarpaulin covering the cart’s cargo, it would have been obvious to a blind man he was male.
Dick found the pretzel on his comms.
“Zulu Zulu nine-five, we have a suspected target concealing himself in an old hay cart three hundred and fifty meters north-east of tower. Suspect is facing the VCP and will have a clear shot of RUC officers… over.”
Jamie exhaled again. He felt his muscles relax.
The suspect wiggled himself into cover; he was lying flat under the tarp, facing away from the tower. Slowly he pushed out the barrel of a rifle from under the green shiny cover.
Jamie didn’t wait for control to answer. He’d seen enough.
Safety off, one last slow exhalation, wait for the wind, wait… wait… If a doctor had checked his vital signs, Jamie would have been considered close to death. All he could see was his sight picture. The crosshairs sat where he assessed the target’s head would be. He squeezed the trigger, and felt the rifle kick. The empty cartridge rattled on the floor.
James Stuart Strange had his first PIRA kill.
* * *
Marine Jamie Strange and Marine Richard Valance were airlifted from Crossmaglen to Belfast and were in the middle of a blow-by-blow debrief within the hour.
This, often unpleasant process, was part and parcel of Northern Ireland’s standard operating procedure.
Jamie’s rifle had been confiscated and his hands swabbed for traces of the usual accelerants associated with a man who had just pulled the trigger. For a good couple of hours he was made to feel like he was about to be charged with murder, as opposed to a man who had just saved the lives of several Irish cops.
Thankfully for the two Green Berets, the dead suspect was a well-known PIRA player, and the long black tube sticking out of the hay cart, was indeed an ArmaLite rifle.
The investigator eventually stopped asking stupid questions, and left Jamie alone in his interview room deep inside the heavily guarded RUC station.
Some fifteen minutes later, Jamie was joined by a plain-clothes officer of indeterminate rank. The man didn’t look much older than Jamie himself. His somewhat scruffy appearance, collar-length curly hair and droopy moustache, were in contrast to his green eyes that were so sharp, they disconcerted the young marine. From the smell on his clothes, he was a smoker, something Jamie hated. A shoulder holster dangled loosely under his arm, weighted down by a 9mm Browning SLP.
“Stand up Strange!” the man barked.
Jamie did as he was commanded without a second thought and looked straight ahead.
“Sir!”
The officer pulled up a metal chair, sat, and as Jamie had suspected, opened a pack of Rothmans. His manner softened, as did his voice.
“At ease Marine… do you smoke?”
Jamie relaxed slightly. “No sir; never used them.”
The mystery officer lit up and exhaled. “Good for you Strange, save you a bloody fortune it will.”
“Sir,” was all Jamie could think to say.
The man eyed Jamie for a moment; his green gaze unsettling the young marine for a second time. He took another long drag and pointed his cigarette forward.
It was all so matter of fact. “After topping a player,” he said, “the SOP is that the shooter goes home for a little jolly. You okay with that Strange?”
Jamie did his best not to eyeball the man back. After three months in XMG, any leave was welcome. “Sir, yes sir… that would be nice sir.”
The man looked for an ashtray; when he couldn’t find one he flicked the end of his fag into a teacup.
He managed a wry smile.
“Nice… yeah… I suppose it is… Anyway… five days leave… from today. Then maybe we’ll find you a different way to annoy the shit out of the paddies. You… and that daft Aussie you were teamed with.”
He stubbed the remainder of his cigarette out under his foot. “That was some shot son; just shy of four hundred yards in a howling gale and pissing rain. Maybe only half a dozen guys in the country could make that kill.”
He stood and got in Jamie’s face. “Be prepared for a visit while you’re home son.”
Jamie wanted to ask who might be going to visit him at his dad’s house, considered he wasn’t going to get an answer and stayed silent.
The mystery man made to leave. He shouted as he walked.
“Travel warrants will be with the crap hats upstairs… Oh and don’t get in any shit back home either… no late-night tear-ups with the local scallys, or you’ll be back tabbing through hawthorn bushes before you can say Jack Robinson.”
Within the hour, Jamie and Dick had changed into civvies, and were being driven at a scary rate of knots through the streets of the city. They were en route to the port and the awaiting ferry to Liverpool.
The car was driven by another plain-clothes guy. This one didn’t speak at all until they reached the dock gate. As the car pulled to a screeching halt, he looked over his shoulder, raised both eyebrows and said, “Well… fuck off then.”
The lads kept their wits about them as they found seats in the boarding area. Dozens of surly looking characters mingled with businessmen and the odd brave tourist. Belfast was hardly holiday destination of the year 1983, and despite their casual jeans and sweats, the pair may as well have had “British soldier please blow me up” tattooed on their foreheads.
“You want a beer Strange Brew?” asked Bird, rummaging in his pockets for cash.
Jamie nodded. “Why the fuck not pal, we’re on holiday.”
Dick was gone a good ten minutes. Jamie made sure his back was pressed firmly against a wall and he kept his eyes peeled.
When the beer finally cam
e, it was warm and flat. Jamie grimaced as he took the first mouthful.
“This is shite!”
“This,” pointed Bird, “was two pounds a fuckin’ pint!”
The two marines shook their heads ruefully, drank their expensive brew and kept a close eye out for anyone leaving rucksacks about.
Once aboard the ferry they relaxed a little, and finally grasped the fact that they were on leave.
Dick managed to find a comfortable chair and slouched down on it. He made a pyramid with his fingers and gave Jamie a quizzical look.
“I got two questions for yer Strange Brew,” he said quietly.
“Go ahead, shoot, so long as it ain’t Mastermind standard.”
Bird leaned forward. “Okay, question one… what was it like to kill that guy in the cart… y’know… to actually drop one.”
Jamie turned down the corners of his mouth, considered his response and spoke coldly. “Better than pulling burning Welshmen out of The Galahad pal. That paddy… he was going kill them RUC lads, weren’t he? Bastard got what was coming I say.”
Bird found a Marathon bar in his carry-on, opened it and took a large bite, spitting chocolate and nuts onto the table as he spoke.
“Okay, question two… Who were them fuckers that turned up after the debrief then?”
Jamie jumped forward, snatched the remainder of Bird’s chocolate from his hand and quickly pushed it into his own mouth.
“22 SAS,” he managed through a mouthful of Marathon. “The fuckin’ top men Birdie boy, the fuckin’ dog’s bollocks.”
Dick nodded. “I thought you was going say that… so what do they want with us then?”
It was Jamie’s turn to sit back and ponder.
“That’s three questions Bird. I only got answers for two.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tony Thompson swept plaster dust from the floor and barked at the sparks working above his head.