by Chris Ryan
His bulk was deceptive, too. At your first sight of him you might think he was muscle-bound. Far from it – he could do 100 metres in 11 seconds, as well as being able to throw small guys over walls and suchlike – a very useful attribute when you’re on the counter-terrorist team and things get physical. He and I hadn’t had much to do with each other before the course, but at LATA we teamed up and found we could work well as a pair.
The training area itself consisted largely of rough fields running up to meet Prescott’s Wood, a big stand of trees that covered the sides and top of a rounded hill, with a road winding through it, ideal for ambushes and illegal VCPs (vehicle control points). The fields looked more or less like neglected farmland, but they included a few surprises. There were several ranges, outdoors and in. The Garaback, for instance, was a two-storey building which had the walls of its rooms lined with steel sheets and rubber matting, so that live rounds would go through the rubber and drop down without ricocheting.
The course began gently with sessions on lock-picking. These took place in a special room packed with locks of every kind – doorlocks, padlocks, everything – plus a key-cutting machine, for us to use to manufacture our own. Outside we learnt to open cars with a slim jim, a long sliver of metal like a ruler, with hooks on it and small sections cut out.
Something else new to me was photography. We were taught to use cameras with short-focus lenses, for recording serial numbers of weapons and suchlike, and also telephoto monsters, for taking covert long-range pictures of people who might be players. We developed, printed and blew up our own shots in the darkroom on site.
At the same time, we did exercises like Kim’s game, in which we were each given a bunch of mug-shots to study, and then, in a live parade, asked to identify any of the faces we’d been looking at. It was drummed into us that our lives might depend on recognizing a key player at a key moment.
A more active pursuit was fast driving, for which the police came down and took us out one-to-one. Most of us were already pretty competent, but we all got sharpened up. We put in big mileage on narrow country roads, such as we’d be using in Ireland, and learned to drive fast but safely. Then they took us to a big municipal car-park, empty in the early hours of the morning, where we used vehicles fitted with a special attachment – a frame which was mounted under the car, like a cradle on small wheels, with hydraulic controls that enabled the instructor to take most of the weight off the tyres. My teacher had a dial with a scale of one to five, and at five the Cavalier became like a turd on black ice, spinning at the slightest provocation. Here we learnt J-turns, yanking on the handbrake to spin the car in its own length.
The best session, though, was on the morning the police took us to a breaker’s yard and we bought a load of old bangers for about £50 apiece, to practise ramming. To get out of an illegal VCP or knock a hostile vehicle off the road you need to know what you’re doing, and for half a day we behaved like lunatics in full-sized dodgems, hammering the shit out of each other.
Another big issue was weaponry, principally the G3s, the Heckler & Koch 7.62mm rifles which are the standard weapon in Northern Ireland. With a magazine holding twenty rounds, and an excellent mechanism that hardly gives any stoppages, the G3 is ideal for firing into cars, since its penetration is far greater than that of the lower-powered Armalite. The longs (rifles are known as ‘longs’, pistols as ‘shorts’) at LATA were numbered with white paint on the butt, and I got No. 7, which I always reckon is lucky for me. Each of us also got an HK 53, a smaller, neater rifle, .556 calibre, good for tucking under the front seat of a car; and a Sig – properly a Sigsauer P 226 – a 9mm pistol, accurate and reliable, and not prone to stoppages. We were told to carry weapons on exercises, just to get used to them, but at night they went into a lock-up in a classroom, and it was the duty-sergeant’s job to make certain they were secure.
At that time the situation in Ulster was pretty bad, and almost every day there was news on TV or in the papers of another atrocity. One afternoon not long into the course the daily programme billed a brief on the political background in Northern Ireland, and the way special forces fitted into the fight against terrorism. Before the lecture, nobody seemed to rate the importance of this topic very highly; the afternoon was fine and hot – definitely not the sort of conditions for sitting in a Portakabin classroom – and a couple of the lads tried to skive off on some pretence. But the moment the talk started, everybody was hooked.
The speaker introduced himself as Chief Superintendent James Morrison of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. He was quite an elderly guy, grey haired, grey faced, grey suited, grey all over. Even his voice was grey: a monotone so quiet it was difficult to hear. He perched his arse on the front of the table and spoke without props, notes or gestures; yet what he said had us leaning forward in our seats.
‘It’s war you’re going to,’ he began. ‘It’s war and nothing else, so it is. It’s been going on for twenty-five years, and I’ve been in it all that time. I still don’t understand Northern Ireland, and I never will. But I do believe we’d be doing a lot better if we’d dropped more of the enemy on operations. I wouldn’t send somebody out just to shoot three or four of them; but on specific operations, of which we’ve had knowledge, it would have put a heck of a lot of fear into them if we’d killed a few more. I shouldn’t be saying this to yous fellers but, flip, I am.’
That had us fairly hooked, and nobody moved as he went on to outline the way special forces fitted into the campaign against terrorism, in combination with the green army, the RUC, Special Branch and various other intelligence organizations. He then sketched in the nature and behaviour of the IRA. He described how the original IRA, known as the Stickies, had turned away from violence and become doves. Today’s hawks were the Provisional IRA, or PIRA (in his accent, ‘Payra’). He sketched their organization: at the top, the Army Council, and under that the Northern and Southern Commands – one for Ulster, one for the Republic. The task of the Southern Command was to organize terrorist attacks on the mainland. In the north there were three brigades, sub-divided into small cells known as ASUs, or Active Service Units, which formed the core of IRA activity.
Fragmentation was the name of their game, he said. Each cell probably consisted of only three or four people: a bomber, a shooter, a driver, and maybe one other. Very often they did not know each other; they didn’t even know their colleagues’ names. The intention was that if anyone was caught, it was impossible for him to give anyone else away. Fragmentation also made life more difficult for the informers – or touts – who might squeal on one phase of a job, but would rarely be able to find out about the operation as a whole.
Morrison told us how the players spent their lives targeting policemen, endlessly trying to pick them up as they left work and follow them back to their homes. ‘I tell you – just the other day they targeted one of my officers. I’ll call him John. The man came home from work at eleven o’clock at night. He hadn’t been indoors a minute before a call came from a friend in Special Branch. “Look, John,” says the caller, “close your curtains. There’s somebody in your back garden. Don’t worry – they’re ours. If anyone comes to your front door in the next few minutes, let them in, and they’ll look after you.”
‘Sure enough, more people came. They stayed the night. They told John that some form of attack on him was imminent. They expected it to be a UCBT – an under-car booby trap – and they had people outside ready to grab the bomber. They waited all night, and no one came. Something had spooked them. All the same, John had to move house . . .’
On and on went the hypnotic voice, telling us about deep hides, concreted over or sealed into houses behind false walls, where quartermasters would store weapons and ammunition for months or even years. We heard of transit hides, less elaborate caches, where one man would deposit a weapon and another would collect it to do a particular shooting. He told us how the IRA staged burglaries to decoy the police into killing areas, and how they themselves would ne
ver risk firing a rifle or a rocket from a position that didn’t afford them a clear escape route.
‘There’s another thing as well now: they’re into drugs. I know this won’t really concern yous guys – it’s the business of other agencies – but you’d better be aware of it. The PIRA always needs money, for weapons and explosives and whatever, and, as you know, there’s tremendous money in drugs. So they’re into narcotics too, bringing in drugs from the south, and distributing them on.’
The chief paused, looking round at all of us, and then said by way of summing up: ‘Oh yes, they’re the most cunning bastards on earth. They’re good bastards in their way and, flip, you underestimate those feckers at your peril.’
He stopped, and everyone sat silent. Then a voice from the floor asked, ‘Do you hate them?’
‘Hate them?’ The speaker seemed to reflect for a moment, then his voice grew suddenly louder. ‘Yes, I truly hate them, the murdering, treacherous, lying bastards. I’ve seen one of my young officers cut down by them in the prime of his life. I’ve heard his little boy asking when his daddy’s coming home, and somebody telling him his daddy won’t be getting up anymore, because he’s there in his coffin. When that happens to a family, it’s terrible, and you don’t ever forget it.’
The speaker was staying that night in the officers’ mess in camp, and after the talk he was invited there for a drink. We drove back to Hereford, showered, changed, and piled into the mess for a couple of beers and some polite conversation. With no particular motive – merely to socialize – I asked the chief if by any chance he’d met my father-in-law, who was quite well-known as a GP around his area of East Belfast. It turned out that the two hadn’t come across each other, and there was no connection; but in the long-term that chance contact was to have far-reaching effects.
The brief on Northern Ireland had brought the course into sharp focus, and when we began doing car-drills for VCPs and ambushes, the guys went into everything with new fervour. Reg Brown, our new instructor (himself from the Regiment), drummed into us the fact that when we drove towards a normal VCP, dressed in civilian clothes and in a civilian car, the green soldiers manning the barrier would naturally take us for Irishmen. It was therefore necessary to have all weapons stowed well out of sight, and to let the guys know covertly that we were from the security forces. The way to do this was to keep our ID cards inside our Northern Ireland driving licences, so that when a driver showed his licence the guard would open it up and see the card. Then, if he was properly trained, he would chat for a minute, say, ‘Fine,’ and hand the licence back, and we’d be smoothly on our way. Anyone watching would take us for normal punters.
That was the drill for a normal VCP. But it was also likely, Reg told us, that we would come across illegal check-points, set up by the players in Catholic areas as shows of strength, to demonstrate to the locals that they were in charge. ‘If you see it early enough,’ he told us, ‘spin out and disappear. If you’re already into it, keep calm, drive on, but slow down as if you’re going to stop. Stay in low gear, and make sure your pistol’s to hand in the right-hand door-well. As the guy comes towards you, to ask who you are, wind the window down, grab the pistol and whack him. Then, if there’s no barrier ahead, accelerate hard and use the car as a weapon to hit any other players who may be on the road.
‘If the road’s blocked, start off the same. The driver drops the first guy, but at the same time the passenger starts putting down a massive amount of fire on his side. The two guys in the back debus, go wide, and put down more fire. The front two jump out, move back through the others, and put down rounds themselves. All four of you pepperpot back into a line, and then assess the situation. If you’ve taken out two or three of the players, and there are only four or five altogether, the commander may take the decision to move forward and finish them off. Also, of course, you’ve got your radios, and by now you will have called for assistance . . .’
Much of our training took place in Prescott’s Wood, where everything was pretty realistic. We built OPs by digging in, carefully disposing of the soil, and meticulously roofing the hides with branches, turf, dead grass and leaves so that no sign of disturbance was visible. From those vantage points we had to keep watch on spots like culverts, in which (according to one scenario) a bomb had been hidden, and report any activity that had taken place in the area. We also had to fight our way out of ambushes laid on by guys from the Regiment, who would open the proceedings by throwing a petrol bomb into the road in front of our car.
Often we were out in the countryside, away from LATA altogether. Many of the farmers round Hereford were really on side, and were glad to let us use their land and buildings. Once an arrangement was in place, someone would tell them that if they saw movement round an outlying barn, or in one of their hedges, on a particular day, not to worry; they were to carry on with their normal activities. Our scenario would lay down that some players were using the barn as a transit hide; we’d build an OP in a spot overlooking it, and go to ground there, watching for business to develop. Since much of the land was similar to the ground in Northern Ireland – undulating fields divided by thick hedges – it was ideal for training.
On top of all this there was a good deal of physical activity. The guys went for their normal daily runs or sessions in the gym, and twice a week an instructor from the Bodyguard Wing took us for unarmed combat. Although quite a small guy, he had a reputation for being able to deck even the biggest lads, and he taught us the holds for disabling people or taking them out. ‘It’s easy enough to kill someone,’ he said cheerily. ‘All you need do is use your hand to push their nose-bone up into their brain. Or you can rip their wind-pipe out. But the best thing in a life-threatening situation is just to break the neck.’ He instructed us to take each other on and learn the moves in slow time, encouraging us to fight dirty by gouging eyes, going for the crotch and so on.
All in all, the course was pretty demanding, but good fun. I felt I was putting a lot into it, but also getting a lot out of it, learning all the time.
Then one morning everything went to rat-shit. We were firing pistols at about ten o’clock when a call came through to the range house, and someone shouted, ‘Geordie, you’re wanted on the phone.’ Puzzled, I went in and picked up the receiver. There on the line was the adjutant’s clerk, calling from camp.
‘Is that Geordie Sharp?’
‘Yep.’
‘There’s a bit of an emergency. The adjutant needs to see you urgently.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. That’s the only message: you’ve got to get right back.’
Christ! I thought, now what have I done? I must be in for a fearsome bollocking.
I looked round for someone to take charge of my weapons, and the nearest guy was Pat Martin. ‘Hey, Pat, I’ve got to head back to the Lines. Will you make sure my weapons and kit-bag go back in the locker?’
‘No problem,’ he answered. ‘What’s the matter? Have you dropped a bollock?’
‘Not that I know of.’ I shrugged and I handed him my pistol, told him my HK 53 was in the hut, and said I’d take the grey admin Sierra.
I drove fast, unable to think of anything I’d done wrong. In a few minutes I was back at camp, parked up and hurrying to the adjutant’s office. When I saw the SSM standing in the room, by the Rupert’s desk, and also John Stone, who’d been best man at my wedding, I knew something was very wrong.
The adjutant stood up awkwardly as I came in: another sign of big trouble. In that warm weather he was wearing his DPMs, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up.
‘Sit down, Geordie,’ he said, waving at a chair, and then: ‘Listen, I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you. Your wife’s been killed.’
‘Oh no!’ I remember I sat forward with my elbows on my thighs, my hands clasped tight together.
‘Yes. We got a signal an hour ago. A bomb went off in a shopping centre in Belfast this morning. It seems to have been an own-g
oal; the bomber was blown to pieces, but he took out five civilians as well.’
My ears heard the words the adjutant was saying, but my brain hardly seemed to take them in. My mind and body had gone numb. I could not move or speak. I sat and stared at the front of the desk, just ahead of me, as if I had turned to stone.
‘The rest of the course is being informed,’ he went on. ‘We want you to take a couple of days off, to make up your mind what you’d like to do.’
My voice came back in a kind of croak. ‘What happened?’
‘She’d gone shopping. That’s all the information we have so far. She was outside, on the pavement, when the explosion occurred. She was killed instantly. Can’t have known anything.’
‘What time was it?’
‘Just after 9.30.’
‘What about the kid?’
‘He was at playschool.’
‘Thank God for that.’ I put my face in my hands.
‘You’ll need time to chill out,’ the adjutant was saying. ‘There’s no pressure on you to complete the NI course. After this, you may not want to go over there at all. If that’s what you decide, everyone will understand. You don’t have to go on the operational tour. If you’d prefer it, you can go back to the squadron, and we can look for a posting elsewhere. See how you feel in a couple of days.’
‘She was coming back!’ I said bitterly. And then again, before I could stop myself, I almost shouted, ‘She was coming back!’
‘I know, Geordie. Everyone knows that. Everyone’s with you.’ He cleared his throat and went on, ‘As I say, take a couple of days off. If there’s anything you need – help with organizing the funeral – come and tell us. Get it sorted out with the boss and SSM. Now – John can give you a lift home.’