by Geoff Wolak
‘Aye?’ I mocked.
‘You knew in advance?’
‘That would be telling, now wouldn’t it.’
‘You got the O’Donnells good and proper, aye. Wees been after that lot for some time.’ He sipped his beer. ‘And that farm across the border?’
‘Do you think I’d admit to crossing the border, even if only half a mile..?’ I said with a smirk.
‘Fooking provos is on the back foot alright, down a lot of men, rifles and stashes discovered. They’d pay a pretty penny for your head on a fooking plate, aye.’
‘I’m not very easy to kill,’ I pointed out as he sipped his beer.
‘Ain’t dat the fooking truth.’
‘When I’m back in Hereford you’ll have to pop over, have a go on some of the weapons, blow something up.’
‘You serious?’
‘Sure, we’re on the same side, and we need each other. I got you a helicopter ride down here no problem, so I’ll get you onto the base, onto some ranges, drink and curry afterwards. And it won’t cost you a penny.’
‘Good of you, aye. I have family over there I could visit as well.’
‘In Bristol?’ I teased.
He laughed. ‘No, in Gloucester. Bristol was me grandfather’s name, which was actually O’Brien, but they called him Bristol because he sailed there and back all the time, and me dad didna wanna have his name – on account of the fact that he was a drunken whoring bastard. Hence Bristol. And we lived in Glasgow for a while.’
I raised a finger. ‘It just so happens we have a few lads from Glasgow. C’mon.’ I led him to the Borderers secret bar that everyone knew about.
‘Wilco?’ they called. ‘Drinking early?’
‘Got a loyalist bad boy gunman visiting,’ I said, nodding at Johnny. ‘But he’s OK, lived in Glasgow.’
‘Where aboots in Glasgow?’ two men keenly asked, and we sat, the beer out, and one of the Borderers had attended the same school, knew the same teachers, and had married a girl that Johnny had fancied.
After an hour they were singing, after two hours eyes were glazed, and the food I had paid for finally arrived, tasty lamb korma knocked together by the chefs, but basically simple lamb with korma sauce from a jar. Not wanting to upset anyone, I had paid for a shit load, and the lads and Intel Section officers each got a small plate of it.
More Borderers were sent for, those from the rough parts of Glasgow, and the accents got thicker as the night went on. I needed an interpreter at times. With a camera produced I put on someone’s cheap sunglass - god knows why he had them over here, and I was snapped with Johnny, and arm around each other.
At 8am I nudged the sleepy loyalist tough guy, and thrust a cup of tea under his nose, Johnny having spent the night in a Borderers hut.
‘Me fooking head,’ he let out, soon sipping the cuppa.
‘You were drinking late.’
‘You too, fella.’
‘I got up at 5am and went for a run,’ I told him, stretching it a bit.
‘That’s whys you’s in the SAS. I like me bed.’
‘When you’re feeling better I’ll get you a good breakfast.’
Half an hour later I led him into our canteen, the guys briefed and told to be friendly, and we sat with Rizzo and Smurf, chatting about OPs and shooting IRA gunmen. Johnny enjoyed the breakfast, much needed after the drinking, and I walked him to a Gazelle an hour later, a crowd of Scots Borderers waving him off.
Back in the Intel Section, the Major said, ‘Well?’
‘I think he’s on the team. We’ll see what happens next, sir.’
‘I had a call from every pigging intel agency last night, asking about his visit. Still, they seemed both vexed ... and jealous. They thought we might get some intel they’d not get.’
‘We might, so fingers crossed, sir.’
Captain Tyler had put together a plan for me to operate a one-man OP near the observation tower in Newtownhamilton, and the Major approved it after some debate. The tower operators were informed, and I flew in on one of their scheduled helicopter supply runs an hour before dark, fully kitted but with no Bergen, AKM covered in the waterproof pouch.
‘You’re going out alone?’ they asked after the helicopter had lifted off.
‘Why not, locals are friendly,’ I quipped, putting on my over-boots, gloves and then facemask whilst being keenly observed. ‘Looks like a pleasant evening as well.’
They stared at me, shaking their heads. I tested the radio and headed south west, along the ridge and with a good view of the main road and the village. I dropped down, still in sight of the tower, and walked straight to the main road, stood on the side for five minutes as cars passed me, most slowing to stare at me – which was the whole point.
Crossing over, I entered a field and left civilisation behind, soon to a small wood and out of view of the tower. ‘Tower, this is Wilco, radio check, over.’
‘Tower for Wilco, signal five. What was the stunt on the road for, over?’
‘Wilco for Tower, the stunt ... was to let the bad boys know that I’m here. Wilco out.’
The night came on, and soon it was just black outlines or indistinct dark grey outlines, the wind rustling the trees, a few car headlights seen, house lights glimpsed in the distance. I covered about half a mile of wet and muddy ground over the period of an hour, now moving southwest, a parked car examined – no courting couple found within.
Finding a small wooded hill, I started up it. Reaching a peak, I tried the radio. ‘Wilco for Tower, radio test, receiving over.’
‘Tower for Wilco, receiving, strength four, over.’
‘Wilco, Tower, out.’
Finding the OP position, I peered down at periodic traffic moving through a junction and scouted the area, an hour used up checking that I was alone in the woods. Back at the OP point I got my knife out and selected a suitable patch of grass, a dip in a slight ridge, some long grass seen in clumps.
Placing down my poncho to hide the imprints of my knees, I knelt and got started, a well practised routine. I made sure that the two halves cut were larger than normal, and once they were shaken and peeled back I dug out an area to lie in, and I compacted the earth that I moved onto my poncho. Lifting the poncho like a sack of coal, I walked down through the woods a hundred yards and dumped the soil in a stream.
Back at the OP, I stopped and listened for ten minutes before placing down my poncho on the exposed soil, a second poncho inside it. Sat down, my rifle at my side, I covered my legs with both ponchos and eased over the grass, taking my time to flatten it out and to make sure that the edges met, not an easy task in the dark.
Lying back, I pulled the ponchos over my chest, I eased the grass over, finally twisting around and lying face down, reaching out and placing the grass so that the edges met. With a glove off, I reached all around and tested the wet grass, happy that the edges met well enough. Face down, the weight of the grass and dirt on my back and legs, I moved my rifle into position and checked the cover, about six inches of the weapon sticking out.
I tried to get comfortable, but that was always a hope in such a hide, but my face mask made all the difference – not least for stopping things crawling up my nose. Pulling out a bent coat hanger, I used it to keep a small area of poncho up – my window on the world, and I peered down at the junction.
An hour later, and I was chilled and uncomfortable, but that was why the lads called ‘the hard routine’.
Movement. A thumping sound coming through the ground. Someone was moving around close by, but if they were IRA I was damned sure that they’d not look for me under an area of open grass. I got ready, but remained as quiet as I could, my heart racing.
Whispered voices, many voices, more thumping through the ground. Poking my head out, I peered left, seeing a stick of black outlines coming up the ridge, and from the looks of their outlines they were regular army.
‘Sergeant, all around defence here,’ came a refined English accent, the owner of that accent un
seen.
‘Yes, sir. Taylor, Johnson, behind that tree, Coltrane, Desmond, further along. Corporal, take your platoon right, ten yards, facing north.’
Men hurried into position, whispered comments echoing, and if I moved they’d probably shoot me. So I froze.
Ten minutes later, and the thumps through the ground had gone, now the occasional whispered comment. It seemed that the Captain was called ‘Moron’ by his men, but not to his face I figured.
I peered down at the junction, realising that the local farmers would have reported this large patrol, and so my OP was now a waste of time. Unless...
I cleared my throat, eased my head out and faced away from the closest position, a hand to my mouth. ‘Coltrane, Desmond, to the captain.’
I heard whispers, then movement, someone moving away from me.
Five minutes later, and more men returned than had left. ‘Taylor, you been dicking about?’
‘No, Sarge.’
‘Who sent the lads back?’
‘Dunno, Sarge, but we heard it as well.’
‘If I catch the fucker and he’s for it.’
The footsteps diminished. ‘Wanker!’ I shouted.
The footsteps returned. ‘Who said that?’ someone hissed.
‘Not us,’ came from two directions. ‘Came from down there.’
‘Down where?’
‘Down there, Sarge.’
‘There’s nothing down there, it’s an open field.’
‘What’s the problem?’ came another voice.
‘Some fucker dicking about in the dark, sir.’
‘When we get back, I want names; they’ll be up all night.’
Footsteps.
‘Captain Moron!’ I said.
Footsteps.
‘I’ll fucking court martial whoever said that,’ someone hissed, and I realised that I was enjoying this too much ‘Sergeant, stay here.’
The footsteps receded, and I waited. All was quiet for ten minutes, but then someone walked past me and on ten yards.
‘Wanker,’ I quietly called.
Someone ran back. ‘Who was that?’ he hissed.
‘Came from down there,’ the men insisted. ‘That hedge.’
‘That hedge is fifty yards away!’ Things were said that I could not hear. ‘Four of you, on me, now.’
Footsteps, thumping the ground, and they walked right past me and down the slope. Easing out a stun grenade, I pulled the pin whilst it was still under the poncho, reached out an arm and lobbed it down the slope, ducking back under the poncho and closing my eyes. The blast echoed, followed by shouts. ‘Stand to!’
Footsteps could be heard. ‘It’s us, don’t shoot!’
‘What the fuck was that?’ the officer asked.
‘A thunderflash, sir.’
‘Who threw it?’ the officer demanded.
‘None of us have them,’ the sergeant insisted.
‘Our position has been given away!’ the officer hissed. ‘The locals will be called the fucking RUC.’
‘Sir, there’s someone down there, in that hedge, maybe an OP,’ a soldier insisted.
‘We all heard the voices, sir.’
‘So how come he knows your fucking names!’ the sergeant countered with.
‘Sergeant, search that hedge, use torches if you have to, see if there is an OP down there.’
The captain withdrew as the patrol again went down the slope.
‘Waste of fucking time,’ I said towards the patrol.
‘Who said that?’ the officer called.
‘Came from up there, sir.’
‘Up here? I’m going to punish every man in this patrol, you’ll be working every weekend for the rest of the tour.’ He stormed off.
‘Wanker,’ I quietly let out, and I could hear laughing.
‘Who’s laughing?’ the officer demanded. His footsteps grew quiet, so I pulled the pin on another stun grenade, but this time I threw it hard, and towards the centre of the woods.
The blast caused shouts, and any pretence at concealment was given up.
‘Form up, ready to leave. Now!’
The small patrol now down the slope ran back up, and one put a boot on my back.
‘What was that?’ someone asked.
‘What?’
‘I heard something.’
‘Form up now!’ the officer bellowed, and off they went.
I focused on the junction, little chance of seeing anything now. Still, I was no longer feeling the chill, but I had a sore back.
As the misty dawn came up I had to force myself to stay awake, but the cold was helping. A curious rabbit came close for ten minutes, but then scampered off, a fox sniffing in my direction, and apart from a curious worm that was it, nothing of interest to be seen on the junction. At 4pm, as it rained heavily and started to get dark, I lifted up and pulled out my ponchos, shaking them off and rolling them up as I scanned the area.
Standing, I was stiff, but felt better as I plodded along, needing a pee urgently. I tackled half a bar of chocolate as I walked, soon back to the main road and across, letting the traffic see me again, radio contact established with the tower. At the rear of the tower I waited with men rotating out, explaining that I saw nothing of interest, and the Puma took me back to Bessbrook.
With my kit off, the guys asking questions, I took a lukewarm shower and grabbed a cup of tea in the Intel Section.
The Major came over when he spotted me. ‘Well?’
‘Saw a rabbit, and a fox, sir.’
‘Did you shoot them?’
‘No, sir,’ I said with a puzzled frown, Tyler smiling widely.
‘Not like you.’ And off he went.
At breakfast, the Major appeared with a Parachute Regiment captain and a sergeant. ‘Wilco!’
The lads smiled as I stood. ‘Sir.’
‘My office, bring your tea.’
With the lads laughing, and figuring I was in trouble again, I followed the Major, and closed the door.
Placing down my tea, I faced the captain. ‘Captain Moran, the marathon runner?’
‘You!’ We shook.
‘You’ve met?’ the Major asked.
I faced the Major. ‘At a few marathons, and the Three Peaks event, sir.’ I faced the captain. ‘Good to see you again, sir.’
‘You joined the SAS,’ he noted.
‘This is Wilco,’ the Major pointed out, the two guests both doing a double-take.
‘You’re ... Wilco?’ the captain asked.
‘I am, I’m afraid.’
‘Your cow picture and that letter are up in our canteen,’ the captain said.
The Major began, ‘The captain is here today ... because of a claim that one of his patrols was ... interfered with.’
‘Interfered with?’ I queried, making a face.
The Major added, ‘The accusation has been made that someone ... other than the members of the patrol, snuck into their position and ... shouted abuse before lobbing thunderflashes.’
I adopted a heavy frown. ‘Someone ... snuck up on a group of heavily armed paratroopers? They were armed?’
‘Yes, they were armed,’ the captain agreed, a glance at the Major.
‘How many men, sir?’ I asked.
He hesitated. ‘Twenty five.’
‘Twenty five heavily armed professional paratroopers, and someone snuck up on them, someone not worried about being shot dead..?’
The captain and the sergeant exchanged looks.
The Major eased back in his seat. ‘You’re saying, Captain, that twenty five heavily armed professional paratroopers ... could not hold a position nor detect nor shoot an intruder through the perimeter.’
‘That does seem odd, sir,’ I agreed. ‘For twenty five heavily armed professional paratroopers.’
‘Very odd,’ the Major agreed. ‘Would bring the patrol leader’s competence into question.’
Captain Moran now looked worried as much as annoyed. ‘I have ... the same concerns over my NCOs and the la
ds, so if you know something then I need to know. We got from the tower that you, Wilco, were in that area on the night.’
‘Are you suggesting, sir, that I infiltrated the perimeter of twenty five heavily armed professional paratroopers?’
‘Well, did you?’
‘No, sir, I did not ... infiltrate anything.’
‘You were the only other person in that area that night!’
I closed in on him. ‘It’s just a rumour, sir, but ... it is rumoured that 14 Intel have an underground hide, wooden sides and a hatch covered in grass, just big enough for two men.’
‘If they were ... inside it,’ the captain surmised, ‘when we took position around them, that might explain it.’
‘Trust me, sir, I had a quiet night observing a suspect cottage. I’d not approach twenty five heavily armed professional paratroopers in the dark.’
The captain and the sergeant squinted at me, since they figured I was taking the piss, which I was.
With the guests gone, the Major said, ‘What did you do?’
‘I set-up the OP, then that lot came in like a herd of elephants and ruined it. I needed to get rid of them.’
He shook his head. ‘If they ever figure it was you ... that’ll be an internal Army enquiry.’
The next day, at breakfast, the Major appeared with a Para Major. ‘Wilco!’
The lads smiled widely. I sighed and stood. ‘Sir.’
‘Yesterday, twenty five heavily armed professional paratroopers ... returned to their previous OP, the one that was rudely infiltrated, and spent several hours jumping up and down and creating a right old mess in the mud.’
The lads snickered.
‘They then stabbed at the ground with metal poles, observed by a local farmer – who complained, and they spent an entire day looking for an OP that 14 Intel say was never there.’ The lads laughed. ‘My office.’
‘Can I bring my tea, sir?’
‘No!’
With the lads still laughing, I followed him into his office. The Para major focused on me, his hands on his hips. ‘I have a question about the competence of one of my officers, and you ... may have the answer. So, without admitting to anything that might get your court martialled, I need to know if Captain Moran ... is an idiot, or indeed a moron.’