It had been my job to pick the spot where we lay because I was now a specialist member of a Close Observation Platoon. Others might have called it a hiding hole. To me, it was a Greenfield Observation Post. Just how it sounded. Normally, it was a spot somewhere in the middle of an anonymous green field from where we could watch somebody else. Only in our case it was a set of giant gorse bushes on the side of a railway line. We were keeping watch on a suspected terrorist who lived a few hundred metres off. It was a difficult and dangerous task that could only be done by men dedicated to their army calling. But I had so nearly not been there.
For a long time after the disappointment of not making it on to the Platoon Sergeants Course, I had thought over whether the army was for me after all. My confidence had taken a major knock and now I was doubting my ability as a soldier. I considered calling it a day, moving back to Glasgow and picking up where I had left off. Yet, once again, it was Angie who shook me to my senses, pointing out the reality that I was good at my job, there was a career for me and I should simply get stuck back into work. She put me back on the road to recovering my self-belief, but I sensed all was not well with us.
The regiment was due to go on another tour of Northern Ireland, to South Armagh, later in the year. Now, I decided I wanted to do something different, so I put my name forward to be a team commander in the Close Observation Platoon. Getting in wasn’t simple nor was it straightforward. The best six sergeants and corporals were chosen after a contest involving the top soldiers in the regiment. That stage lasted six weeks. Competition for places was really keen and anyone getting a slot thought of himself as extremely lucky. Going through the selection fight was pure hell. It involved sleep deprivation, constant fitness work and just sheer hard work. The intention was to prepare you for what lay ahead.
I knew it was going to be a dogfight to win a place, but at the end of it I was absolutely thrilled to be told I was one of the lucky half-dozen who had been selected. It wasn’t all good news, though. We would have the weekend off, then we’d set off on the actual training course itself, which would last another seven weeks. Nothing ever seemed to run smoothly for me, however.
The night before I left to join the other soldiers on the course, I was out drinking with Angie. We needed time together because we had been going through our worst spell since we had married ten years earlier. Now, things had reached the stage where we were on the verge of splitting up. I blamed myself for taking Angie for granted and always putting myself, my brothers and the army before her. I loved Angie to bits but had taken my eye off the need to convince her that loving me was the right thing to do and was, for me, so all-important. Without Angie, I was nothing. But our talk just didn’t seem to take us anywhere. It was as if we were drifting down a river, each of us heading into streams running ever further apart.
Our relationship had reached rock bottom and the dread of what would happen to us next was whirling around in my mind at five o’clock the next morning as I sat on my bags with a hangover, pondering over the future. At that point, one of the guys approached. I’d always looked on him as a friend, but when he began mouthing off some silly remarks I got up to speak to him. Unfortunately, that was as far as it got. Without warning, I felt blow after blow to the face. It took only seconds for me to come to my senses and begin chasing him all round the camp.
I was furious, intent on killing this guy, but he was saved by the intervention of the sergeant major, who reached him first. Already, I was having trouble seeing out of my right eye, where his fist had caught me.
There was no way I was going to let him get away with punching me for no reason. The crazy, sad thing was that on the very verge of leaving for a really significant challenge in my career, had he offered to fight I would have taken him up on it. However, having thrown punches and run away, he wasn’t up for facing me.
One thing life, and living among people who survive the dangers of gangland, had taught me was that you bide your time. Everything comes to those who wait, goes the old saying, advocating patience, and I had plenty of that. I’d bide my time and strike when the opportunity arose, I told myself, but that morning as I set off to take part in the course, I was nursing a cracking black eye with the prospect of my wife leaving me and an uncertain future.
From the first moment I arrived at Hythe and Lydd Army Camp in Kent, however, I completely focused on the job ahead. The ultimate intention of the course was to teach us how to watch something but ensure that nobody knew we were doing so. I loved this and within a short time was noticed by a sergeant major who asked whether I had considered going for selection to the SAS, telling me this was an option open to me.
But before going anywhere else, or even thinking of transferring, I had to get through this course successfully. It was probably the hardest, but also the most enjoyable I’ve ever done at any time in the army. I was also looking forward to putting into practice what we were learning when I reached South Armagh, the worst, most dangerous place in the province.
We returned home to Inverness, but then it was off again, this time to bandit country. It might sound stupid, but my mind was taken up with what we had been sent there to do. Thoughts of Angie took a back seat. While it was true that there you needed all your powers of concentration, sometimes just to give yourself a chance of survival, pushing Angie back in the order of importance was foolish. At the end of the day, no matter what happened with the army, it was her I’d fall back on. She was my rock, whose actions would determine whether I had an existence worth living or one that was empty and hopeless. It’s always easy to be wise after the event, but the way I treated Angie at that time was wrong.
Within a short time of arriving in Northern Ireland, I was busy gathering as much information as possible using covert means. This was sent back to experts who analysed and used it to plan further operations.
* * *
A good example of how this worked was the operation at Loughgall, County Armagh, in May 1987. The IRA had previously used a stolen JCB digger to ram and bomb. Now, another digger had been stolen and an intelligence gathering unit of the RUC discovered it hidden at a farm. Security forces got wind it was to be used in an attack by the Provisional IRA East Tyrone Brigade on the unmanned police station at Loughgall. Units of 22 SAS are predominantly used in covert actions and now they were brought in to perform just such an operation. Soldiers were hidden in the police station and in the fields and woods around it. When the terrorists attacked, the soldiers opened fire, killing eight of them.
In October 1990, two other members of the Provisionals, Desmond ‘Dessie’ Grew and Martin McCaughey were killed by undercover soldiers as they retrieved three AK47 rifles from a derelict farmhouse near Loughgall. The location of the weapons had been established by 14 Intelligence Company, and the information was passed on to 22 SAS, who lay in wait. It was another example of how the various arms of the services combined.
* * *
I had only been in the province a matter of weeks when I was tasked by Tactical Command Group (South) to recce a Greenfield Observation Post near Forkhill, where Lawrence Dickson had been murdered, and the Kilnasaggart Railway Bridge with a view to gathering intelligence on a suspected member of the IRA who lived in the area.
It meant finding a place in which six of us could lie up for two weeks, totally cut off, and live, watch, photograph, report back and survive.
The first job was to find a suitable spot in which to hide and this had to be done without drawing attention. So, I went about looking for a location. Since my regiment was already in the area, I was able to retain my normal headdress. Had I been with another unit, then it would be odds-on some local would spot the difference, pass word back that a member of another outfit was in the area and probably set alarm bells ringing as to what I was doing there. The terrorists would quickly realise something was going on in their patch and begin asking questions and investigating. So I simply joined in with other patrols, watching and looking, though the others I was wit
h didn’t know why I was there. The fewer who knew what I was up to, the better – and the safer.
To start with, I’d done a helicopter recce, flying around the area and selecting potential hiding places, then I examined these more closely in daylight while on patrol. The best observation posts are gorse bushes, the thickest gorse bushes you can find, simply because nobody likes going near them. Wander in and you get jagged with the sharp and painful gorse needles. But for my type of work they were brilliant. During the various daylight reconnaissances, I had chosen three likely spots. Then, at night, when it was dark and most people were in their beds, I went back to them all, going inside the bushes knowing nobody would be watching what I was up to. I couldn’t risk taking even a torch but needed to see how suitable each spot would be. What were the entry and exit points? Could we get out quickly in an emergency? How thick was the cover? And could I see the target’s home? Most importantly, would anybody see us once we were inside? After repeatedly checking out all three, I decided which one I would use.
It took three nights for me to build the den because I had to work alone. It wasn’t like the streets of Springburn, where everything was done during the day and you go out scouring the local area for bits and pieces to make it the best den ever. This was carried out in the early hours and in silence. I took in chicken wire to act as walls and flooring. At the end of the day, the post had to be sustainable but unrecognisable, and any work I did in it should not interfere with surrounding features. Once we were in, nobody was to know we were there. The post I had chosen happened to be on steep banking close to the side of a railway line. It needed to be banked to stop us sliding down, which meant building platforms. Luckily, about two miles further along the line, I came across some disused railway sleepers and humped these back to help build the areas on which we would sleep and work. Had I taken sleepers from around the bushes, locals might well have noticed they had disappeared. When it was completed, I congratulated myself that it was the best gang hut or hole in the ground I had ever made in my life. And it was, as time would prove.
On the third night, we went in with all our kit, including weapons and enough rations to last two weeks, though we almost didn’t make it. As we quietly headed for the hideout, we came across a couple having a quiet kiss and fondle. They obviously didn’t want anybody to know what they were up to and, for that reason, were hidden in shadows and silent. Fortunately, we heard a groan, probably of pleasure, and stiffened against a wall until they finally had finished their lovemaking and moved away. But it could have been awkward. Had they spotted us, the likelihood was that gossip about our presence would have been heard in the local bar, from where it would be passed to a local IRA player and then on to active service units. Before we knew it, everybody would have been searching for us. This time luck seemed on our side.
Once inside the post, we sealed ourselves behind a curtain of gorse and settled down to watch the home of our target, looking to see who he visited, where he went and who called on him. It was our little box, and nobody else knew where our box was. Not even our own troops, who were pulled out of the area in case they accidentally came across us and gave the game away. We were effectively on our own.
That first night was exciting, as we got used to our surroundings. We knew it would be cold. Winter was approaching. We had taken with us three sniper suits, worn by men whose job it was to lie for hours, maybe days, in a single spot. They left your hands and feet exposed, but everything else was zipped up under cover. They were waterproof, but having them on was the equivalent of wearing a sleeping bag.
It was my job, despite the conditions – the cold, the wet, the constant worry of being discovered – to make sure the other guys were permanently on their toes, even though we couldn’t stand up. We took steps to leave no trace of our existence. We urinated in bottles and defecated into cling film in front of one another. After a few days, the smell of urine was appalling. As I said, I waited until day eight before doing the toilet – one of the others managed to hold on until day ten! The bottles and cling film went into bags in our Bergen packs. Our rations were eaten cold because a fire was out of the question.
Some of the guys tried making humour out of our situation, but I found nothing funny about it. Day after day, night after night, one guy would be operating the cameras, while another manned the radios, ready to send off signals informing base of any movements or developments; a third covered the exit point, while the others were resting. In the early days, we learned to listen for every noise, lay back and looked up through the gorse bushes at the stars in the cold, night sky, thinking. Later on it drizzled, rained and snowed.
I thought about my whole life during that time. I went back through everything I had done, anything I had ever said. Because Angie and I had just about fallen out before I left, my thoughts constantly went back to her. I wanted to be able to tell her I loved her and was sorry, but I couldn’t, and there was no point in moping about that fact. We were apart and that was it.
After about three days, we settled into a routine, working out how to do everything in silence. If it was essential to speak, then it was done in whispers and generally late at night when nobody was about. Movement was terribly limited. If you were lucky, you managed to find enough space in which to kneel. Rest periods became the worst part of being in there. I wanted to lie down, to fall asleep, but mostly I just lay with my eyes closed, trying to nod off but not succeeding. Sometimes I would wonder about the guy next to me, pondering if he felt the same, then realising he must be because it was exactly the same for all of us.
I also wondered and worried about Tam and Pawny. The latter had been building a fearsome reputation as a dangerous villain. He had been in the dock of the High Court three times, facing charges with the potential to bring him a sentence in double figures. One allegation involved no fewer than 14 charges of armed robberies on banks and building societies; another of robbery from a security van. On each occasion, Pawny walked free, but he knew police were itching for an excuse to arrest him again.
As the days dragged on, we became more conscious of noises around us. I heard all sorts of rodents and other tiny creatures running about, over our bodies and even scuttling across our helmets and kit. Even though I knew where I was and who was with me, it could still be frightening. The hairs on the back of my neck would rise as I wondered just what the creature was.
We were in a bubble, a cocoon, all of us with different thoughts and fears, but determined to act professionally and not to show weakness. The longer we remained in the observation post, the slower time seemed to pass. Minutes seemed like hours.
After a while I began thinking I was seeing people or even cars in the middle of the fields around us. When daylight came, I realised they were cows.
By now, it was day ten and I needed to keep things going. I began playing mind games with the other guys to keep them alert. I would tell one guy, ‘He thinks you’re an arsehole.’ It was kidology, but it set off two of the guys bickering, one trying to punch the other. I realised just how quickly things could go from being quiet to exploding and compromising the entire post!
Some of the guys, through lack of discipline, ran out of rations and I ended up selling them some of mine, using the money to buy everyone drinks when we finally emerged.
We continually ran the risk of being found. The terrorists knew that when patrols were pulled back from any area, then something must be happening within that zone. They were aware of the existence of army methods and observation posts because their ranks included former soldiers. Rather than use the time-consuming and risky strategy of peering into every likely hiding place, terrorists and their sympathisers, including farmers, would go out into rural areas and simply bang away at bushes and trees, knowing that if anyone was hiding inside they would in all probability be hit. Throughout our time in the post we knew this was a possibility and on about the tenth day I heard the sound of firing from a few hundred metres away. Someone was shot-gunning bushes. I te
nsed, but then worked out from the diminishing noise that the gunman was moving away from us.
Fourteen days was the maximum we would be allowed by the army to stay in the post because any longer than that and the mind starts to wander and play tricks. On the night we were to be extracted, my mate came down to take care of us before the changeover and we managed to clamber onto the railway line. I was standing there, shouting his name, calling, ‘Where the fuck are you?’ Due to the length of time I had been in this type of environment, I now felt secure in it; he wasn’t yet and had dug himself into some bushes about 200 metres away. When I found him, I told him, ‘Get up! You’re the team commander. Guys are looking at you for orders.’ I could sense the rest of his squad looking at him and saying to themselves, ‘He’s shitting himself.’ Eventually, I got him out of his hole and showed him the post where we had been for the last fortnight. We did a sort of formal handover, even though it was only a bush. I was the last to leave and had checked all was in order; we had put it back exactly as it was before we went in. Nobody could have known that there was, or had been, a post there. We passed over all the kit and moved away.
We had about two miles to walk. Remember, I hadn’t stood up for 14 days and must have looked like an old man, bent over and finding it difficult to move my legs freely. The further we went, the more the blood began to flow and the stiffness eased. After we’d gone about a mile and a half, I saw the Puma helicopter coming to pick us up. I needed to shine a Firefly light to guide it to us. The light is so bright you would blind a pilot by shining it upwards and so you point it towards the ground. The helicopter pilot saw it and moved to us. It was about half past midnight, pitch dark. He opened the rear doors and we jumped in and I heard an ‘ugh’. I thought, ‘That’s not because of us, is it?’ But then I remembered we hadn’t washed for 14 days – and realised what we were carrying in our Bergens.
The Underworld Captain: From Gangland Goodfella To Army Officer Page 24