by Alan Judd
The arrangement with Beazely continued to work well. In fact, it was even slicker than before. It was only very near the end of the battalion’s tour that it went wrong. Violence was increasing throughout Belfast and shootings and bombings were losing their news value unless there was some special twist. Even Beazely had to leave his hotel sometimes and once or twice Van Horne had to phone through the story to Beazely’s paper, posing as Beazely’s stringer. Two days before they were due to pull out, when the command structure of the incoming infantry regiment was already in place, there was a big bomb in a city centre post office, not far from Beazely’s hotel. There had been no warning and an unknown number of civilians was killed, with many horribly maimed. Charles was with the CO and the Rover Group about half a mile away when it went off and felt the sudden lowering of pressure followed by the heavy solar-plexus thump of a big bomb. ‘That was a bloody big ’un,’ someone remarked superfluously, simply because someone had to say something. The CO insisted on driving down to the scene, although it was out of the battalion area. It was a smouldering, gruesome sight, and he walked among the ruins, stepping over the fire hoses, his face taut and pained. A pile of intestines was draped obscenely across a wall. He glanced briefly at Charles and turned away.
As it was late afternoon the story was in plenty of time for the morning papers. Charles wrote it and Van Horne phoned it through, as they could not find Beazely. It was later that evening, in conversation with one of the RUC men, that Charles learned that Beazely was one of the dead. He hurried back into the good end of the office, where he and Tony Watch now sat, and called Van Horne.
‘That’s it, then,’ said Van Horne, when he had been told. ‘We’ve had it. They publish his story on one page and his obituary on the next. Who do they say wrote it – a medium?’ There was, uniquely, a trace of emotion in his voice. ‘He owes us quite a bit of money still and we can hardly ask for it, can we, without being found out?’
Charles thought. Even now he could not feel very worried. He was convinced it would work out. ‘We’ll tell them,’ he said.
‘Tell them what?’
‘Everything. I’ll tell them.’
‘What about me?’
‘You’ll be all right, don’t worry.’ He rang the sub-editor, a man called Jack Smiles, of whom Beazely had often complained. Pausing only to make sure that no one could overhear him, Charles told Smiles the whole story. In fact, it was very simple and there was not much to tell. There was a long silence when he had finished.
Eventually Jack Smiles spoke. He sounded like a gravel-voiced TV crook. ‘Who else knows about this?’
‘No one.’
‘Positive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Make sure they don’t, I’ll be on the first plane in the morning. I can come to your place, can I? Good. Meantime, I’ll make a few alterations to the story and put it out under “Our Special Correspondent” which means anyone, even you, right? And we’ll get an interview with the boy’s parents and do an obituary. The Beazely story will be as big as the bomb one – service in Vietnam and all that. We’ve been needing a new slant on Northern Ireland for some weeks now. This’ll give it a shot in the arm. See you tomorrow.’
Jack Smiles arrived when he said he would, having taken a taxi from the airport. He was a short, thick-set, businesslike man with a shiny new raincoat. ‘Somewhere we can talk quietly? Good. Tragic business, this. Brings it home to you when members of the press start getting killed. Terrible. Tragic. Whole place gives me the creeps already. You see the story and the obituary, did you? Sensational. Went down very well. Surprised none of the other papers got it. They’ll all have to rerun it tomorrow, with obituaries. Sounds callous but it’s not. We’ll all miss him.’
They sat down in the empty Mess at battalion HQ. It was after breakfast and the CO was at the Brigade briefing. ‘Beazely hardly ever left his hotel,’ said Charles. ‘It was very bad luck. Just one of those things, I suppose. He was probably going to get a stamp.’
‘Whisky, more like. He must’ve drunk them dry in the hotel. But tell me straight – you and this corporal have been doing his stuff for the last two months, have you?’
‘Yes.’
‘All of it?’
‘Most of it.’
‘No wonder it’s been so much better, the idle bastard. And the cut he was giving you was peanuts compared with what we were throwing at him, God rest his soul. When d’you leave the Army?’
‘Four days from now.’
‘There’s a job waiting. We’ll send you back here – not for long, just for continuity till we get someone else. Then we’ll have you back in London. How’s that grab you?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Why not? Money not good enough? We’ll raise it. I can’t believe you’ve got a better offer, and you’ve got talent for the work. You got something else in mind, perhaps?’
‘No, nothing. I’m not thinking about anything until I’ve left the Army.’
‘I see, one of them. What about this corporal of yours? It was a fifty-fifty effort, wasn’t it?’
Van Horne was summoned and asked if he wanted a job. He glanced quickly at Charles, as though to check that everything was on the level, and looked more openly delighted than Charles had ever seen him. ‘’Course I want a job. But I need money to buy myself out.’
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred and fifty.’
‘Cheque or cash?’
‘Better make it cash.’
‘Come and see me in London.’ They shook hands and Jack Smiles caught the lunchtime plane home. For the rest of the day Van Horne positively and wholesomely grinned.
During the last hectic period of the tour Charles meant to find out about the arrangements for the funeral of whatever was left of Beazely, but he never quite got round to it. He had the uneasy feeling that the manner of Beazely’s death, and his employer’s reaction to it, was as comic as his life – if either could be called comic. In retrospect, Beazely’s existence had never seemed very plausible, and it was not easy to believe that his death was a serious matter. All that remained of him, besides the memory, was just enough money in Charles’s sock for him to buy himself out of the Army.
England is indeed a green and pleasant land. Salisbury Plain was particularly warm and beautiful, the air soft and almost inexpressibly gentle. Salisbury Plain, because the CO had decided they would exercise their option as a para-trained unit to parachute back. For some reason not even regular parachute battalions parachuted back from Northern Ireland, and the thing was done amidst a great publicity fanfare. Parachuting was always glamorous, although statistically not very dangerous, certainly not very skilful and in the last resort not even a very effective way of getting to the battle. Despite his dislike for the press the CO had developed a taste for publicity and he ordered all the stops to be pulled out. The arms find and the shooting had placed the battalion firmly in the public eye, and he wanted to keep it there. Possibly he saw it as an aid to promotion.
They took off from Aldergrove, packed side by side into the Hercules transports, each man netted in to stop him being sent sprawling over those near him. This always seemed an unnecessary precaution, as they were packed so tightly that it was very difficult to move in any direction. They sat shoulder to shoulder, each row so close to each other that their helmets sometimes touched during turbulence, and so close to the men opposite that their legs were entwined. Their kit filled the floor space so that the RAF despatchers, who were constantly checking the myriad wires and straps that ran the length of the aircraft, had continually to climb over them, treading on knees, hands and even shoulders. Most men were apprehensive before parachuting and sometimes this showed itself in boisterousness and devil-may-care nonchalance, but this time the soldiers were subdued and thoughtful. They were tired, and relieved to be going, and most wanted simply to get back in one piece.
Each Hercules sat at the end of the runway revving its four engines until the whole plane shook
alarmingly and the wings actually flapped. Then it lurched suddenly forward with an acceleration that could be felt in the pit of the stomach. It was very soon airborne, climbing and turning steeply. It was almost impossible to see out, and the roar of the engines soon settled to a steady pitch that precluded all but shouted conversation. Charles yawned, not because he was relaxed but because that was how nervousness affected him. It made him look calm, he knew, but all the time there was a great emptiness in his stomach.
They crossed the Irish Sea in tactical formation and at near sea-level, climbing suddenly when they reached the coast of England. The aircraft was unlit inside, giving it the appearance of a grotesque charnel house, packed with objects and life-like bodies. In the gloom opposite Charles could see Henry Sandy’s deathly pallor. Henry hated jumping and sometimes his cheeks seemed to be tinged with green. Their eyes met but Henry showed not even a flicker of recognition.
With three minutes to go they were got to their feet. Each man hooked himself up and checked his neighbour. Their kit was strapped to their legs and the parachute harnesses bit into their shoulders and thighs. They tightened their helmet straps beneath their jaws until it was difficult to open their mouths. The aircraft juddered on to a new course for its final approach, nearly sending them all tumbling over. The despatchers scrambled hastily up and down, squeezing between the bodies or shoving them aside, deftly checking hooks, harnesses and straps. The two rear doors were slid open and the wind shrieked in, competing furiously with the noise of the engines. There were shouted commands and the aircraft bumped and juddered again. The men were pale and concentrated, clinging to their straps to keep their balance. No one had wanted to parachute but everyone wanted to go now, to get out of the doors and be free of the plane. The red light came on and, seconds later, the green. The first few men, helped by shouts and hefty slaps from the despatchers, were suddenly gone. Everyone stumbled along the fuselage with the trained rhythmic stamp, trying to keep balance and place, anxious to go, anxious not to think about it, trying to be like machines.
Just before he went Charles glimpsed Chatsworth and ahead of him, Nigel Beale, in a rare unity of silent concentration. Anthony Hamilton-Smith had already gone, and so had Henry. Suddenly he was himself at the open door with the trailing edge of the wing before him and the wind buffeting his face. Without time for pause or thought he was in the slipstream, whipped along for a second with his boots above his head, a delicious moment of complete helplessness. Next came the sharp curve downwards and the exhilarating sense of uninhibited acceleration until brought up hard by the shock of the main canopy deploying. Then the conditioned look up to check it and the blissful sight of a full canopy blossomed against the blue, then all the drills for kit, distance, speed, and then steering away from everyone else and looking for space. Your friends are your enemies in the air.
All around, the sky was filled with gently falling parachutes. The aircraft were already a great distance off. It was very quiet. There was a warm, playful breeze, not enough to cause problems. The Plain stretched to the horizon in undulating greens, browns and yellows. Below him and off to the right Charles could see the CO, drifting by himself, quite still in his harness, his arms raised to his front lift webs like a toy parachutist. For a few seconds the entire battalion was in the air. Charles could see the press, the television cameras and the ambulance on the edge of the dropping zone. He looked idly down, feeling immensely distant and thinking of nothing at all. He was recalled to himself by the sudden uprush, the green rush, they call it, that comes a second before impact.