by Paul Bruce
‘Two reasons,’ Don told us, happy to explain. ‘All you need to know is what I tell you. The less you know the better and maybe, one day, it could be safer for you not to know the people who are in command of our little operation.
‘The second reason is that guarding Lisburn right now are members of the Ulster Defence Regiment and, quite frankly, I don’t trust some of those bastards. It’s bad enough that they have got to know me; it’s better that they don’t get to know the rest of our team.’
Don’s scepticism would prove disturbingly accurate. Many months later, we heard of two IRA members who had had the audacity and courage to join the UDR and who had robbed the UDR’s armoury one night and escaped with a number of Sterling machine guns and self-loading rifles. It hadn’t taken the police long to discover who had been responsible but it was too late; the two IRA men had vanished.
That night, we decided to have a drink in the little pub near the rear of Long Kesh jail, which was situated between the jail, the old aerodrome and the race course, about 200 yards from the security gates at the back of the jail. So that we would not be seen travelling in and out of the main gates, we had been given our own key to those gates which we used at all times. The pub would become our local. We liked it because not only did it have a dart board but it also seemed to us a very English type of pub and served what we wanted, typical English pub grub.
The following day, we needed to dispose of the various parts of our ‘millies’ – 9mm Browning pistols that we had used on our three victims. The barrels, extractors and firing pins had to go. We knew all too well that any good forensic investigation would identify our part in those killings if they ever got their hands on those bits and pieces.
So we drove out to Lough Neagh and threw some of the bits as far as we could out into the water. They must have hit the water about fifty yards from the shore. We then drove further out, to the coast, and slung the remainder in the sea, as well as breaking up the wooden case, with its dark burgundy-coloured velvet lining, and throwing that into the sea as well. We watched as the wooden pistol case bobbed away out to sea.
When we arrived back in the late afternoon, Don insisted that we all went and ate a good meal in the cookhouse. Back in our Portakabin, he announced quietly, ‘Right, now we’ve had something to eat, start to compose yourselves because we will be leaving here in one hour. We’ve got a little job to do.’
During the following hour, we prepared for the job, stripping our ‘millies’ – oiling, unloading and loading them again. We would be careful to buff each and every round of ammunition before loading it into the magazine. Everything had to be sparkling clean so that nothing could possibly go wrong. Don never examined our weapons; that would have been an insult. We had been trained by the SAS and took pride in being totally professional.
We took our own Brownings, as we had done before, but the new 9mm pistol, equipped with the silencer, would be kept in the glove box of the Cortina. The person responsible for carrying out the killing that night would be responsible for cleaning and loading the ‘killer gun’. On this occasion, Don had decided that he would pull the trigger. He felt he should be responsible for trying out the new weapon.
Don told us that this job should be a piece of cake for this would be a far easier task than the others had been. It would be the first time we were carrying out the task for which we had been designated.
He explained that we would drive to the map reference Lisburn had given him that morning and wait in the car to be contacted by another SAS unit. They would bring with them an IRA gunman who had been targeted and would hand him over to us. We would never know his name nor would we know what crimes he had committed. We had to take it on faith that the man was guilty. We presumed that he had been responsible for carrying out shootings or bombings.
Don explained that the men we would be dealing with had records of IRA involvement going back months and years. Some had fled south when the troubles began and were now returning to the north to organise IRA units and carry out killings. They had been targeted by MI6 operatives in the south, who informed Lisburn headquarters that these men were on their way back across the border.
Patrolling the border were at least two four-man SAS units, living in the field in their combat kit as we had all been trained to do. They would stay out for four weeks at a stretch, in wireless communication, picking up IRA suspects who they ambushed as they made their way north. The SAS unit would then pass them on down the line. Those to be despatched would be taken by the unit to rendezvous with us at our map reference; some would be passed on for interrogation at Long Kesh; others sent for Special Branch questioning.
As dusk fell, we clambered into the car and headed south. I drove, with Don in the passenger seat, while Benny and JR sat in the back map-reading and navigating. This time everyone seemed more relaxed, one reason being that Don would be carrying out the mission, which meant we could all breathe more freely.
There would be another significant difference. Our other two hits had been in daylight with the victims unaware of what was happening. This time the victim would have been picked up some hours earlier, informed that he was being taken for questioning and, therefore, we believed, he would be more relaxed. He would have no idea that he was about to be executed. We realised all too well that this subterfuge would make our task that much easier.
Five miles from the border, we passed a British Army foot patrol of twelve men, a platoon of infantry, armed with SLRs and dressed in combat gear and hessian-covered helmets. They glanced at us but took no notice and made no attempt to stop us. I looked at their faces and most seemed pretty pissed off with their job of patrolling the border. They probably felt as though they were targets, waiting for the IRA to take potshots at them.
We pulled up on the side of the lane near the map reference Don had been given. I switched off the lights. Don told JR to get out and walk about ten yards behind our car to watch our backs, just in case of an ambush. Shortly afterwards, I saw the flash of a red torchlight about thirty yards ahead of us, in the hedgerow; the signal we had been waiting for.
‘That’s them,’ said Don and got out of the car to walk towards them. I stayed in the car with Benny. I saw two men walking down the road towards Don, one in full combat gear and camouflage helmet, the other dressed in jeans, a donkey jacket and boots. The SAS man had his hand on the man’s soldier, guiding him towards Don.
Don approached the two men and took control of the man. The SAS man turned and walked back up the lane until he disappeared from view. The IRA man, about five feet ten inches tall and well built, seemed apprehensive, a little frightened but not agitated.
Don called JR over and told him to sit the man between him and Benny in the back seat. Without a murmur, the man climbed in.
‘Let’s go,’ Don said and I drove off.
Don turned round to the man and said, ‘Just relax; we’re going to take you for a ride. We’ll be handing you over to the RUC.’
I had to drive about 150 yards further down the road before I found a place to turn round because the lane was so narrow. Then we headed back to the wood where we would dump the body. We drove for about half an hour before we arrived at the spot.
As we drove, the IRA man began talking, telling us that he belonged to no terrorist organisation, didn’t know anything about the IRA and couldn’t understand why the hell he had been picked up.
Don told him, ‘It’s nothing to do with us … we’re not interested … you’ll have to explain all that to the RUC.’
On arrival, I pulled off the road, parked and switched off the car lights. Don turned to Benny. ‘Nip out and check that the RUC are waiting for us down the road.’
Benny hesitated, not immediately realising that Don was bluffing. He suddenly twigged, got out of the car and walked off down the lane. He came back five minutes later and said the RUC were waiting down the road.
Don ordered the bloke out of the car and Don got out too. The man had taken only a coupl
e of steps when I heard the ‘thump, thump’ of the Browning, barely audible even in the stillness of the night. I saw the man slump to the ground, shot twice, once in the back of the head and once in the back.
JR said, ‘I thought you would wait until we were nearer the spot. Now we’ve got to carry the fucker.’
I thought how callous JR had become and it surprised me.
Before we left the scene, Don bent down and picked up the two empty shell cases. We wanted to leave nothing that could ever raise suspicion or, worse still, launch an investigation that could lead directly to us. Whenever we left the scene of a killing, we would always pick up every shell case.
Once again, we all grabbed the arms and legs and, between us, carried him to the trench. I noticed that only about half of the original trench had been left open; the rest was filled in. I also noticed that on the exact spot where we had dumped the other body, some young conifers had been planted. Once again, we threw the body into the deep trench and walked back to the car, making no attempt to throw any dirt on the body or cover it in anyway.
I wondered when the farmer responsible for burying the body would be around to carry out his duty. I realised that a dead body would attract predators very quickly, particularly foxes and crows, rats and other vermin. The job would have to be done speedily, perhaps before daylight. I looked around but saw nothing. I would imagine that he had been warned to stay clear of the area and begin his gruesome task at daybreak.
I shivered in the night air and felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, as though someone had walked over my grave. I wondered whether the cold night air was the cause or the killing we had just carried out. In my heart, I knew the blame lay with the execution.
As we drove back to Long Kesh, however, I sensed a feeling of relief among the four of us. This time the operation had gone as planned; there had been no last-minute hitches; no need to face the man before shooting him; the operation had been cold, clean, clinical.
We arrived back at camp before midnight and sat around drinking coffee and discussing in some detail how the operation had gone. Don would raise any points he thought needed airing, to ensure that things went even better on any subsequent mission. He suggested, although it was really an order, that in future operations the man sitting behind the driver would always get out of the car and act as guard as JR had done that night.
As we chatted, JR stripped the Browning and silencer and cleaned and oiled every piece before reassembling it.
Two hours later, we turned in for the night. I dozed off immediately and slept through the night without a dream or even the hint of a nightmare.
On waking the next morning, the realisation of the killing the previous night hit home but I knew that I would have to forget it, push it to the back of my mind and get on with life. I had already discovered that this was the only way I could deal with the thoughts that, on occasion, would fill my mind and haunt me. Mostly, I managed to bury the memories by concentrating on whatever I was doing, whether it was cleaning my teeth, having a shower or enjoying a meal. I knew I had to forget everything we were doing or I wouldn’t be able to cope. I told myself, time and again, that an SAS man doesn’t question his orders. He does what he is told to do with complete professionalism. And I was determined to be a bloody good SAS man.
Thank God, however, Northern Ireland wasn’t all about killing.
We lazed around the next day, found a launderette in Lisburn to wash our clothes, watched TV and read the papers. That night we went for a drink at the Union Club in Carrickfergus.
We hardly ever talked about each other’s backgrounds, our families or our lives before joining the SAS. Of course, being young squaddies, we talked about women but would never mention their names. For an entire year, we would live in each other’s pockets, living closer together than any family. For the greater part of our life in Ulster, we would mostly go out together as a group and we would always work together, never alone.
I learned that JR, a Yorkshire lad, had lived most of his life in an orphanage and had become a boy soldier before joining the Royal Engineers. Benny came from Enfield, Middlesex, and his background seemed quite normal, like mine. I learned that he had an elder brother and sister. Don came from Devon but was born overseas where his father, a career soldier, had been stationed at the time.
Because we were spending so much time together, we all realised that whenever we went to a pub, club or disco we should split up and go our separate ways, although still keeping a watchful eye on each other just in case. We were all friends, of course, but realised that keeping apart as much as possible would make life easier when we had to be together, whether driving around in our Q-car or chatting together in our billet, where, of course, we would spend most of our time.
When we were confident of going to a safe area, perhaps to play football or to the Union Club, we would always hand in our pistols at the Long Kesh guard room until we returned. We would always pick them up immediately on our return, however, because we never knew how quickly we might be sent into action.
When we arrived at the Union Club, I went to have a drink with John, the Englishman who I had met on a couple of visits. We began chatting over a couple of beers and he invited me to Sunday lunch that weekend to meet his wife and family. He knew I was young, just 23; and away from home and he wanted to be kind and generous. I really looked forward to that Sunday roast; it seemed ages since I had enjoyed a home-cooked meal.
The following night, we decided to go to the army disco at Sydenham Docks. The place was steaming when we arrived shortly after nine o’clock. It seemed half-full of squaddies but, more important, there seemed to be three women for every two blokes. We looked at each other and knew we were going to have a ball.
It seemed to be my lucky night. I had been standing by the bar having a quiet pint of bitter and looking around when I noticed an attractive, young, well-built, rather tarty blonde girl dancing with one of her girlfriends. She came over, ordered a drink and began chatting to me. I felt hooked.
She told me her name was Alison but I didn’t believe her. She just didn’t seem like an Alison, a name which, to me, conjured up Alice bands and pretty young girls. Instinctively, I realised this Alison knew all about life as she appeared openly raunchy. She was precisely the sort of girl I needed to meet that night to make me forget everything.
I asked Alison if she wanted to dance but she preferred to stand and drink. Only when the music slowed down did she want to dance. As soon as we started dancing, I knew she wanted me, her hands went everywhere and she pressed her body to mine as though she had known me for ages.
She suggested we go outside for fresh air and I was only too happy to get out of the smoky atmosphere and find a chance to smooch. She didn’t want to know. She led me to a line of half a dozen three-ton army trucks which, conveniently, had their tailgates down. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Give me a lift up.’
I grabbed her arse and pushed her into the back of the truck before climbing in. She had picked up her coat on the way out and she threw it down on the cold floor of the truck and lay down. ‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked. ‘I’m not wearing any knickers.’
I needed no second invitation and I had been right. Alison was dynamite. She demanded I screw her twice before she would allow me to leave. As we walked back into the disco, she said, ‘I’ll see you again. I love a good screw.’
During that night of debauchery, Benny’s claim to fame would receive the attention of at least two girls and would earn him a reputation which lasted throughout our twelve-month stint in Northern Ireland. To say the least, Benny had been well endowed.
After going outside for a long session with the girl he had met that night, she returned to the disco singing Benny’s praises. She proclaimed happily to her girlfriends: ‘You’ve got to try him; he’s amazing; it’s the biggest I’ve ever seen; I can hardly walk straight and I definitely can’t sit down.’
Sometime after midnight, all four of us ret
urned to Long Kesh with smiles on our faces. We had needed a good drink and a good fuck to unwind and forget, for a night, everything that had gone on since we had arrived in Northern Ireland. We felt better.
Spruced up and smartly dressed, I met John at the club for a pint before the long-awaited Sunday dinner. He drove us back to his bungalow about three miles away. The moment I saw his daughter Lizzie, I knew we would hit it off. She confessed later that she, too, had felt the same way.
During lunch, Lizzie and I would occasionally catch each other’s eye and smile, and afterwards she asked me if I would like to go with her to take their dog for a walk in the fields behind their house. I readily agreed.
We spent more than an hour walking the dog, chatting, laughing and teasing one another. Lizzie was fun to be with. Her parents were from England and had lived in Northern Ireland for only a few years. Only five feet five inches tall, with brown hair, brown eyes and a lovely well-rounded figure, Lizzie, a shop assistant, had just turned twenty.
As we walked and talked, I realised that Lizzie would be a wonderful companion for me during my tour of duty in the Province and, hopefully, would give me an interest away from army life. I also realised that the more time I spent with Lizzie, the more respite I would enjoy away from my three mates.
Considering how closely we had to live together, the four of us got on bloody well, yet part of that relationship was built on the realisation that we were part of an SAS unit who knew they had to get on together, come what may. That helped. At times, however, I yearned to be on my own in the country, birdwatching or simply walking alone, without the necessity to carry a gun or the constant need to look over my shoulder.
I felt guilty liking Lizzie. I was certain I felt something for her, not only lust, and yet I wondered if my attraction was based on the fact that she had parents who lived in a nice house, who were showing me generosity, feeding me and making me feel at home in a way that I had never experienced in my life before. They made me feel more than welcome.