The Regiment

by Rusty Firmin

  With the photography course under my belt, Pete Bing, ‘Tiny’, ‘Saddlebags’ and I joined up with the surveillance course proper. This was due to take a number of weeks and involved a lot of long, long days. Of course, long hours and tiredness go hand in hand and in this there was an element of selection for the guys joining the Det. In Northern Ireland, in fact in any operational zone, you cannot afford to make mistakes: lives are on the line. Staying alert and focused despite exhaustion was key to this.

  The training took place in various areas around the west of England and throughout it we carried a 9mm Browning pistol which we needed to keep concealed at all times. A lot of the practical stuff was done in some city areas which, back in those days, were developing reputations as ‘no-go’ areas for white people but, in addition, we also spent a considerable amount of time in the classroom learning about the theoretical side of surveillance, anti-surveillance, counter-surveillance and close target recce.

  If you’d asked me beforehand, I wouldn’t have thought that the theoretical training would be much use, but I came to see that it was an indispensable part of the course if you actually wanted to put this stuff into practice in the Province. As a result, I found myself revising late into the night quite regularly when we weren’t out doing practical training, which clearly didn’t please my new wife very much.

  On the other hand, I loved the practical side of it. We did a lot of shooting with live ammunition, car-follows to practise our surveillance drills and close target recces to gather information on targets of every imaginable description. Initially we worked in pairs, but the aim was that eventually we would develop the skills and confidence to work ‘one-up’, that is, alone.

  This was a real challenge. On your own, you have to think about everything: vehicle security; navigation; driving; communication over the radio; and all without standing out in any way, either to surveillance-aware targets, or to simple passers-by who might spot you.

  One of the key things you learn is that you always need a reason to be somewhere – a cover story if you like – and if you can successfully do this, people will simply ignore you. If, on the other hand, you attract attention by looking out of place, then you’re putting yourself seriously at risk; terrorist ‘dickers’ – their own surveillance people – were always watching out for us.

  On return from a long day, one of the most important elements was being able to give a concise and comprehensive verbal briefing to the team or individual taking over from you. If you missed something out, or made something up, again, you’d be putting them at serious risk. Verbal briefings often needed to be followed up with a written report, and any photography you’d done needed to be passed over for development and printing, and then marked up when it was available.

  A typical scenario for one of our training exercises would be as follows:

  Let’s assume I’ve been given a mission to follow, ‘house’ and report on an armed terrorist. The first task for me and the team I’m working with is to actually find the terrorist. We’ve been given a description of his vehicle, including the number plate, as well as what he looks like and what he’s wearing, so that part is beyond our control and if it’s wrong, we’re fucked. But if it’s right, then we need to pick him up and begin the follow, at all times reporting back by radio on the route we’re on and our direction of travel. If we have multiple vehicles and teams available, we might be able to interchange the lead vehicle, but if not, it’s going to be up to us to stay with him and not get noticed or compromised. Then the task is to ‘house’ him. That means to identify where he’s stopped and, if possible, identify what kind of weapon he’s carrying.

  Once we’ve housed the terrorist, the next step is to keep his location under surveillance until base can jack up a response. Normally speaking, that would be to send an armed SAS team to make an arrest. If the terrorist or terrorists surrender, then fine but if they resist arrest, it’s all going to end badly for them.

  It sounds straightforward enough but the reality of working in a hostile environment is that it never is. The guys we were following were experienced, surveillance-aware and very violent. They were not going to make it easy for us.

  After eight weeks of training with no days off, I then had a police defensive driving course. This was run by a pair of brothers from Worcester who were police driving instructors and really knew their stuff, and the purpose was to teach us how to drive the powerful Range Rovers that the ‘special projects’ teams used quickly but safely. This was fun, fast and furious stuff, zipping along with blue lights flashing through the country lanes and A-roads at speeds up to and over 100 miles per hour. As we did this, we needed to communicate with the police control rooms for the areas we were passing through, and also give a running commentary to the instructor, explaining every move we made. At the end of each day, I felt exhausted and completely drained but again, I really enjoyed it all, and was delighted to learn that I’d passed.

  It must have been mid-1981 when we deployed to Northern Ireland. We were based in what was probably one of the most secure locations in the whole Province, and it had good facilities for us including ranges, a well-equipped gym, sports pitches, squash courts and a tennis court housed inside a blow-up dome where we used to play regular matches. One of the more amusing aspects of this was that the Regimental Police from the regular unit based nearby used to bring ‘soldiers under sentence’, who were serving short periods of detention, down to the tennis courts to act as ball boys for us. They would be in full uniform, minus hat, but with a pack on their back, crouching by the net as we played, just like Wimbledon. When a ball went out, the RPs would set them off at double time to get it which was great for us, probably not so much fun for them. I’m not sure you’d get away with that these days.

  It was good that we were living on a well-equipped base because, from an operational point of view, this tour was just as quiet as the last one we’d done. On 5 May 1981 – exactly one year after the Iranian Embassy Siege – Bobby Sands died on hunger strike in the Maze Prison so the political temperature was hot, but throughout the time we were there, there were no major terrorist incidents.

  So, much the same as before, we were mostly employed in intelligence gathering, mounting observation posts on known or suspected terrorist locations and attempting to identify the terrorists themselves, as well as their families and associates.

  A typical example was when we received information that a particular house was being used as an IRA bomb factory and were tasked to put it under observation. We deployed as a four-man patrol, split into two teams of two, with me and John Mac forming one pair.

  The first task was to carry out a close target recce and establish a suitable position for an OP. We headed down there in a vehicle and, about a mile or so from the target, we were dropped off, armed to the teeth, so we could make our way across country to the house. Once there, we established a lie-up position and checked our map to make sure we were at the correct location. Once we’d confirmed this, John and I crept forwards, leaving the other two within earshot to cover us through the night. We moved as stealthily as possible and got in close to the building, noting registrations of vehicles, suspicious activity by individuals and any comings or goings. The frustrating thing was that even if we saw a weapon in a terrorist’s hands, we were forbidden from challenging them or taking any action other than noting the information. Our mission was to gain intelligence, and Special Branch were interested in the bigger picture. The only circumstance in which we could shoot was if we were compromised and terrorists pointed their weapons at us, or if shots were fired, in which case I, for one, would have happily blown them to kingdom come without batting an eyelid.

  We spent most of the night in close proximity to the building before stealthily withdrawing, RV’ing with the other pair and making our way back to where the vehicle was waiting for us. Back at base we were debriefed on all the information we had gathered. The vehicle registrations were then passed on to a Det surveill
ance team who would try to establish who was using them, and who, where and why they were meeting, and thus seek to build up the bigger picture. In the meantime, a standing observation post would be inserted close to the building we’d recced to ensure that it was under 24-hour observation for at least the next ten days.

  It’s fair to say that within the squadron, the ideal outcome of an operation like this would be a building assault and the opportunity to blow the bastards occupying it away. Unfortunately, it rarely comes to that. Instead, about a month after the operation started there were a series of raids in which bomb-making equipment and explosives were found, and this led to terrorists being taken off the street and put in jail. In reality, that wasn’t a bad result at all even if it didn’t fully satisfy our aggressive instincts.

  One December Saturday during this tour I decided to take a trip into Belfast to do some shopping and have a look around the place. Specifically I was interested in seeing how it had changed since I was working in the ‘segments’ with 49 Field Regiment. I signed out a car and headed out towards Nutt’s Corner where there was usually a weekend market. I was alone but comfortable that I knew the route and the area pretty much inside out. I was, as always, carrying my 9mm Browning Hi Power, loaded and ready with a round in the breech, but with the safety catch – operated by the right thumb – in the ‘on’ position. When I was walking around I would have the pistol in a covert holster inside the waistband of my jeans on my right hip, but for driving I used to place it under my leg so that I could get at it quickly in an emergency.

  I drove into the city along the Belfast Road, parked up and did my shopping, as well as meeting up with a couple of guys I knew for a coffee. I still had the problem of looking like Joseph Doherty – particularly as I had long hair and a moustache – who had managed to escape from Crumlin Road Jail earlier in the year while on trial for murdering Captain Westmacott, so, as usual, I kept my ID card in my hand, ready to show to any army or police patrol that stopped me.

  Once I’d finished what I was doing, I went back to my car and, after giving it a quick check over to make sure it hadn’t been booby trapped, headed off back to base.

  I decided not to take the same route back – varying our routes is part of our training and is just common sense really – and instead decided to go through Andersonstown on a route which would take me via the Glen Road back to the Nutt’s Corner roundabout and then back to base.

  I passed down the Falls Road without any problems, got past the two cemeteries and then onto the Glen Road. Traffic was heavy on Saturday afternoon and I was moving along quite slowly. But this gave me the chance to look out over the football pitches which were off to my right.

  I continued to grind along at a snail’s pace until eventually, the two cars in front of me came to a stop. All of a sudden, two guys wearing balaclavas jumped from one of the stopped cars and were moving quickly towards me, approaching from either side. Fuck! It’s amazing how quickly the adrenaline starts pumping: we’d practised this kind of scenario on endless occasions and it was almost as if my subconscious reactions took over. I knew my doors were locked so they wouldn’t be able to gain access to the vehicle straight away: this was our standard operating procedure. As the two guys closed on my car, I couldn’t see a weapon, but it was clearly my vehicle they were coming for, and they were just feet away from me.

  I’d left space in front of me when the two cars had stopped and as one of the men went for the passenger door I manoeuvred my vehicle up onto the pavement, knocking the other one flat in the process, as he reached for the driver’s door. Driving on the pavement, I manoeuvred round the two cars in front of me and back onto the Glen Road. There was a loud bang and I realised that someone had fired a gun at me but I couldn’t see where the shot had come from through the rear view mirror. I floored the accelerator and rapidly changed up through the gears, swerving through the traffic. I was focused now on anti-surveillance drills: was I being followed? By the time I reached Nutt’s Corner, it was clear that I wasn’t.

  I had no way of reporting the incident because I had no communications and this was, of course, in the days before mobile phones were available. Instead, as soon as I got back to base, I reported in at the operations room and gave them an outline of what had happened and set about getting the vehicle changed. My actions in escaping the car-jacking had clearly demonstrated that I was a member of the security forces and the car would now be compromised.

  To this day I do not know whether the hijacking attempt was a deliberate attempt to grab a member of the security forces or whether it was just a random attempt to steal a car for some other purpose. For it to have been deliberate, either I or the car would have to have been compromised at some point. I didn’t think it was me. I hadn’t been showing my face around in Belfast during the tour and I’m reasonably sure I would have picked up any surveillance on the way in to Belfast or while I was shopping. The car was a possibility. Having said that, it would have been a remarkably slick operation to get a hijacking together on the basis of my more or less random trip into the city. Not impossible, but unlikely. In any event, I decided that I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

  We had a lot of time on our hands on this particular tour and that led to more socialising than was usual. There were various places you could go to if you wanted a drink or a meal but going out inevitably meant that we would have to be armed at all times and that at least one member of the group would need to stay stone cold sober, both to drive and to maintain security in case we were compromised as members of the security forces.

  So as an alternative to going out, we would occasionally go to one of the other military bases where you could get a few drinks and a bed for the night afterwards in complete security. On one occasion I had gone with Gerry, John Mac, the Mink and a few others to Belfast for a few beers at a bar we knew in a local barracks. We were minding our own business, having a mellow evening on the beer when a group of Royal Air Force (RAF) NCOs came in. In typical RAF style they were very neat and clean-cut, in complete contrast to our group with our long-hair, big sideys and moustaches; and a couple of them were also bodybuilders, as you could tell from their tight t-shirts over bulging pectorals and biceps.

  We didn’t take much notice of them and got on with our drinking but one of the bodybuilders started making noisy remarks about us: how scruffy we were with our long hair and grungy civilian clothes. I should have known better but this started to get on my tits. I wasn’t looking for trouble but this clown was beginning to upset me.

  Eventually he came over to where we were standing, made some insulting remark and poked me in the chest. That did it. I hit him once and down he went, out for the count. Oh shit. Two of the 8 Troop guys grabbed my arms and hustled me outside the bar whilst the others checked on Mr Muscles to make sure he was OK.

  I’m the first to admit that I’d had too much to drink that evening but by then, drink usually mellowed me and I suspect that my violent reaction to a bit of taunting from an idiot – I mean, who did he think we were? – was probably the result of the frustration of a more or less fruitless tour, constant cancelled operations and maybe a few things from my personal life too. I was newly married and my wife was pregnant and that isn’t a good time for a long separation on an operational tour.

  Luckily for me – and him too – the RAF guy wasn’t badly hurt and the rest of the Troop managed to cool things down. If there had been any charges, the likelihood is that that would have been the end of my SAS career: I would certainly have been RTU’d and quite possibly permanently for my lack of self-discipline. Fortunately, I wasn’t charged. I learned my lesson and never let anything like it happen again.

  We finished that tour in January and I was back in Hereford in time to be present at the birth of my first son, Mark Anthony Firmin, in February 1982. We had a team task coming up later in the year in southern Africa and I was looking forward to a relatively quiet period at home before then, doing a language course on camp in order to
prepare for it. It would be a good time to get to know my baby son.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SUICIDE MISSION

  There’s a basic rule in special operations: once you start believing your own mythology, you’re in trouble. In the nearly five years I’d been with the Regiment, I’d learned that the keys to successful operations were meticulous planning based on solid intelligence; exhaustive training and rehearsal; and ruthless determined execution. But in May 1982, we began to plan for an operation which, even then, looked like a kamikaze mission and which, with 30 years hindsight, looks stark, staring mad. Amongst the people who planned it was an officer who went on to 4-star rank and a reputation as one of the British Army’s most effective general officers; he ought to be lying awake at night thanking God the operation was never executed but knowing him, I’d bet he isn’t.

  In April 1982, B Squadron was going through a training cycle, getting ready to disperse on ‘team tasks’ around the world. I was part of a group doing a Portuguese language course in the education centre on camp in Hereford. When we’d finished, we were supposed to go to Mozambique to form a training team to work with the army, who were fighting against a guerrilla group called RENAMO. This group was originally set up by the Rhodesians – and actually by members of the Rhodesian SAS, alias ‘C Squadron’ – to destabilise their neighbour during the Rhodesian war and to prevent help coming to the ZANLA (Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army) and ZIPRA (Zimbabwe People’s Revolutionary Army) guerrillas. However, although that was all over, they were still operating out in the bush, causing problems both for Mozambique and for the new Zimbabwean government.

  My son Mark was then about six weeks old, so he was the big focus in my life at that time but even though I was supposed to be learning vocabulary and conjugating verbs, I was also thinking about getting out to sub-Saharan Africa and wondering about the challenges it was likely to pose.