Читать книгу Fishers of Men - The Gripping True Story of a British Undercover Agent in Northern Ireland - Rob Lewis - Страница 8

‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and

when he is old, he will not depart from it’

– Proverbs 22:6

My home town was a rather grey mining village located in the middle valleys area of South Wales, situated midway between the heavy industrial area of Merthyr Tydfil in the north and the historic town of Caerphilly in the south. It had a resemblance to the town in How Green Was My Valley, but with a few stark differences to that romantic portrayal of life in the valleys. The coal-blackened faces of the miners winding their way home from their shifts underground were certainly there. However, there was no sign of them singing their hearts out as they were greeted by their loving wives at the front doors of their houses, nor were there smiling children ready with a tin bath full of hot soapy water in front of a roaring fire to wash their fathers’ backs. In this town the miners were more likely to have gone straight into the local pub and to have been physically dragged out by their spouses later in the day, the women determined to get their housekeeping money safely in their purses as opposed to filling the coffers of the local public-house landlords. These were hard men in many ways, with wives to equal them.

When I was a youngster growing up in the South Wales valleys it seemed like the best place on earth. We had our well-trusted gang of friends, we had a vast expanse of mountain area to explore and we had the run of the busy town. We also had a number of other places, like the colliery, in which to amuse ourselves. This was our patch and we jealously guarded it against all outsiders. Fights between gangs of youths from rival villages and towns were commonplace and were often quite violent. During these pitched battles it was not unusual for serious injuries to be inflicted. One teenage lad from a village north of our town had a near escape when he was thrown from the bridge over the railway line. The police arrived and dragged him off the line just a few moments before the Merthyr to Cardiff train would have sliced straight through him. The town had built up a notoriety that was soon to be brought to the attention of the gangs in larger places like Cardiff and Caerphilly. A showdown was destined to happen. Late on a particular Friday night the packed-out Cardiff train pulled into the local station and spilled out its load of invaders. They were greeted with a hail of bottles, bricks, iron bars, and whatever else was throwable. The large crowd that had come to give the youth of our town a lesson were soon on their way home.

From the very start of my teenage years life was just good fun, marred only by the unfortunate requirement to attend school. The school had been founded at the beginning of the century and had started its career in the higher elementary role. It was regarded as a fine specimen of selective education for post-primary pupils. It had been formally recognised as a secondary school some years later, and had become a grammar school in the years just after the First World War. To me it was a large, daunting, redbrick building where the only objective of the black-gowned teachers was to see how many times a day they could have me standing outside the headmaster’s office for an inevitable caning. From day one it seemed that every teacher knew me intimately, the unfortunate legacy of having an elder brother at the same school, a brother who had gained a reputation that was too easily passed on. I was destined to be the target of certain teachers’ attentions, but not always to the benefit of my education. In my fourth and fifth years at grammar school I would regularly wear two pairs of underpants, my swimming trunks and a pair of rugby shorts under my grey school trousers in an effort to minimise the stinging pain of the bamboo stick. This was all very well until the headmaster who dealt out the punishment, a red-faced authoritarian, changed his tactics and administered the cane across the palm of the hand. I would bend over in readiness. This worked sometimes, but on other occasions the sight of my well-padded buttocks probably influenced his decision to dispense the penalty across my fingers instead.

Our little gang would get up to all kinds of mischief and misdemeanours, which were probably to stand me in good stead for the future. My home town and the surrounding area were an excellent training ground for a potential life of running, hiding, sneaking about and being able to talk oneself out of a dilemma. Our pack of friends consisted of about ten lads. To any adults, teachers and outsiders who knew us then, what our band of scoundrels managed to achieve in later life would probably convince even the greatest sceptic that anything is possible for subjects of a misspent youth. Our merry bunch of no-hopers managed to turn out two special forces soldiers, an executive with Plessey in New York, a teacher in Canada, an Olympic athlete, a recipient of the MBE, a first-class rugby player, a commissioned officer in the army, a company director in London, a police inspector, and another who has a ‘shady’ job in Whitehall. Not bad going for a bunch of lads from working-class backgrounds in a high-unemployment area of the South Wales coalmining valleys. There were many others from the same background living in the same town who ended up in correction centres and prisons for their various misdemeanours. It could easily have gone that way for any of us. Being a somewhat outgoing and boisterous bunch, we were more often than not involved in some kind of nonsense which could quite easily have led us into trouble on many occasions. More often than not, though, we were able to get away scot-free.

Most weekends we would engage in the usual local teenage prank of setting the numerous gorse bushes up on the mountain on fire. After the initial thick grey smoke had run its course, the fire would then take full hold and burn ferociously. It could easily be seen for many miles – when you have about ten bushes burning simultaneously it is quite a sight, an absolute Mecca for trainee arsonists. We would head for the nearest telephone, ring the fire brigade in the town and test their reaction times in getting to the area and putting the fires out. We would even go and talk to the firemen and give them detailed descriptions of non-existent youths whom we had seen running away from the scene of the crime. Maybe it would be naive to think that they believed a word we said. However, even when the police arrived to see what was happening, we always kept to the same story, although we always made a point of dumping the matches along the route first in case they decided to tell us to turn our pockets out.

One of our little gang’s regular Saturday afternoon activities was ‘nicking’. The general idea was to split into groups of two lads, make our way into the town and steal the most useless or the largest item we could get away with within the timescale laid down, and then return to the park shed to compare our booty. Howls of laughter came from the shed when the various trophies were presented. I still smile at the memory of seeing everything from pineapples, sets of cutlery, bicycle pumps and even a pitchfork laid out in front of us while we compared notes on how we had nearly got caught, discussed how a particular shop-owner was getting wise to us entering his shop every Saturday, and what the plan would be for the following weekend’s nicking trip.

This hobby was to progress to the stage where many years later two members of our gang, at a friend’s stag party, relieved the local transport company of a fifty-six-seater luxury coach. After demolishing a bus stop en route, the said article was last seen in the middle of an Essex county cricket ground with its four-way flashing hazard lights on, and in the distance yells of ‘Fares, please’ from the two culprits could be heard as they fled into darkness, pursued unsuccessfully by the local constabulary. As can be imagined, that night’s activity has often given us a great laugh since. It also reinforced a point that had been our gang’s adopted motto for many years. Rule one: don’t get caught.

Unfortunately getting caught did happen on one or two occasions. One time I remember being caught out well and truly was at the local mine-workers’ institute. This was another typical South Wales valleys redbrick building, where the miners had a snooker hall upstairs and various function rooms downstairs, including a ballroom that doubled up as a bingo hall for a few evenings a week. Two or three of us had been playing snooker upstairs when it was noticed that the man who ran the place, Old Maxwell, was nowhere to be seen. As quick as a flash my two companions moved to the far end of the hall where the doorway to the caretaker’s accommodation was located, while I grabbed a chair and very quickly started to empty the glass case over the counter of all the Aero and Mars bars I could lay my hands on. I looked over at one of my mates, who gave me the thumbs-up. It was still all clear. Just as I was about to move to the area that contained the cigarette packets I heard a shout of ‘What the hell are you up to?’

Fucking hell! Old Maxwell had come into the hall through the back door. My comrades had not seen him coming. He came directly over to where I was standing on the chair and swiftly grabbed my leg. I did my best impression of a forward roll off the chair, slapped the floor with my hand, and began to yell out in pained agony. The initial grim and annoyed look on his face turned to one of sheer panic. I rolled about, yelling loudly and pretending to have an asthma attack. Old Maxwell became extremely concerned, and it was a real effort for me to carry on the charade. I tried hard not to laugh out loud. One of my friends walked in and made it quite clear to Old Maxwell that he was really in the shit for grabbing my leg and accused him of hitting me, which of course he hadn’t. My mate told him that it was likely that, when my father was told of this, he would probably come and give him a good hiding for attacking me. The man was apologetic in the extreme. I sobbed, limped and gasped for breath as I asked him for a drink, and suggested that if I could move to the door for some fresh air it would probably help my breathing recover. He agreed this was probably a good idea and told me to go outside, adding that he would fetch me a drink of water. As my two comrades assisted me to the door one whispered to me, asking if I was okay. I said of course I was, I was putting it on; at this point the three of us turned and shouted at Old Maxwell, telling him what a gullible old git he had been, and ran off down the street. No Equity cards required here. We were all natural actors. It was quite some time before I returned to play snooker though.

Another great expedition that we embarked on from time to time was to venture down to the area of the local colliery. My grandfather had worked at this colliery in its heyday. It was situated in the valley of the local river to the east of the town, and the works area stretched over several miles, consisting largely of heavy machinery houses, pithead baths, mineshafts, dynamite stores and blacksmiths’ shops. To a bunch of young teenage lads like us it really was an Aladdin’s cave, although in reality it was an extremely dangerous place to be.

The colliery in those days was the working environment for about three thousand men, operating over a number of different shifts twenty-four hours a day. These men became known to our gang as ‘the enemy’. One of our favourite jaunts was to catch the empty coal drams at the top of the colliery, jump aboard, ride on them until they were approaching the pithead area of the works and then jump off at the last minute to avoid being caught by the enemy. This was actually a necessity, as the miners really would give you a damned good thumping if they caught you. They knew the risks and dangers of our little joyrides; we did not. These drams were extremely heavy four-wheeled steel containers for carrying loads of coal along a rail track. One false move or fall and they could quite easily have cut straight through a limb like a hot knife through butter. After one particular fun-filled afternoon of coal-dram riding I decided to head home. On the way it became evident that my shoes were caked black with coal dust, and I thought that if my parents were to cotton on to the fact I had been down in the area of the colliery then the smelly stuff really would hit the fan. Along with the rest of the intrepid gang I made my way to the pithead baths, where, just inside the doors, were positioned two industrial boot cleaners for the miners to grease and polish their heavy steel-toed pit boots. After a quick spin under the revolving brushes, my shoes would have passed the scrutiny of any Guardsman, and I made my way home thinking I was looking spick and span. I was very wrong.

As I walked down the garden path and into the house my mother took one look at me, shouted at me to get out and then proceeded to give me a mild bollocking about going down to play in the area of the colliery. I remember looking at her in complete amazement and stating quite categorically that I had been nowhere near the place – if I had been down the colliery, then how come my shoes were so clean? She then told me to go to the bathroom and take a look in the mirror. The sight in front of me was reminiscent of old films and photographs I had seen of the young lads that worked underground, or chimney-sweep kids. I was filthy with coal dust. Lesson learnt – if you are going to lie, make sure you have your alibi watertight. Attention to detail is a necessity. On future occasions when we had been down the colliery we used to go home via the open-air swimming pool in the town and use their showers. My mother never caught me out again.

It was a cold, damp Sunday afternoon, and I was about thirteen at the time. After making sure that all signs of coal dust had been eradicated from my face I sat down to watch the television while my mother started to prepare tea. The evening news commenced with the story of another riot in Northern Ireland. I had never really paid that much attention to the problems in the Province I knew very little about, and cared nothing much about it for that matter. I vaguely remember my parents saying how terrible it all was – that was about it for me. This particular Sunday was different, though. It was 1972 and this was the last Sunday in January, Bloody Sunday. The thought of ever being involved personally in any shape or form with the Province never entered my mind. Why should it? Although I knew that thirteen people had been shot by the army that day, the realities of the situation went straight over my head. I do remember seeing film coverage of teenagers my age throwing stones and the occasional petrol bomb at the army. I wondered if they had bollockings off their mothers as well. I suppose I was lucky to live and grow up where I did. I felt a certain sympathy for those kids – life must have been bloody awful in those conditions. The following day we played soldiers and rioters in the schoolyard. Ironically, I was a rioter.

I was lucky enough to have had numerous family holidays in the seaside town of Porthcawl, a traditional ‘miner’s fortnight’ in the last week of July and the first week of August. My grandparents owned a caravan there, and more often than not I would stay on for a few extra weeks with them.

My scallywag ways were to turn into profitable ventures working at funfairs at Trecco Bay and Coney Beach, both packed-out places of entertainment during these periods. Along with other lads working at the fair I would remove all the seats from the various rides in the morning and coat the base with a thick green slime of Swarfega, a substance usually used for cleaning dirty or oily hands. It was also an excellent way to catch coins that had fallen from the pockets of the people who had been on various rides. At close down every evening a few minutes was spent washing off the slimy coins, which were then added to my pay and holiday money. A lucrative little number indeed.

Porthcawl, as well as being a great place for families wanting a decent holiday, was also sometimes a magnet for people looking for trouble. With some concern for my own safety I watched one afternoon as a large group of Hell’s Angels went haywire along the arcades and public houses in Coney Beach, turning tables over, smashing fruit machines open and grabbing young girls as they tried to escape. There were about forty of them in total, rampaging their way along to one of the large pubs along the seafront. They looked extremely menacing. Most were long-haired, dirty, tattooed and drunk, a few wore World War II German helmets, and all had cut-off denim jackets over their leathers proclaiming ‘Windsor’ in Gothic writing. This was a chapter that over the years has gained quite a notorious reputation. Two policemen who approached them were forced to back off as a variety of chains and knives were openly displayed, and it was more than obvious that the Angels would have been quite happy to use them. Then the group descended on a large pub with a huge outside seating area for families. This was their biggest mistake. As dangerous and as wild as they were, they had not bargained on a major factor of Porthcawl at this time of year – the Welsh miner.

I had followed them down along the tarmac path leading from the funfair towards the caravan park. They then proceeded to turn and force their way through families having a quiet afternoon drink in the sun. The whole area erupted. Women and kids were forced over to a grassed patch while about fifty or sixty ‘sports jackets’ suddenly stood up and went to town on the gang. It was mayhem. I watched as a large broad-shouldered man stamped on the face of one of the gang who had been punched to the floor by another bloke seated at the same table. The most amusing part was that, as he was stamping on him, he was talking to him. He was actually telling him that he had spoilt his day and really should not have done what he had done. This was not uncontrolled rage – the bloke was explaining to the Hell’s Angel quite calmly where he had gone wrong. The fact that his face was spattered all over the place and he appeared to be unconscious did not matter. After about ten minutes the whole thing calmed down, and the police finally had enough back-up to bring some control to the scene. The Windsor chapter sauntered away, bloodied and beaten, and the sports jackets sat down and carried on drinking as if nothing had happened. Another lesson to be learnt – no matter how hard you may think you are, you do not fuck with a bunch of Welsh miners when they are on holiday with their families. These were hard men, really hard, and this was the environment I was brought up in.

The holidays came to an end and my school examinations loomed, and with them the usual unanswerable question of what my future employment would be. The subject was constantly being raised by teachers and my parents. I was having too much fun with my friends to be interested in studying and was subsequently no bright light in school. Therefore the choices open to me were really going to be limited. An apprenticeship with the National Coal Board was an option, but it really did not appeal to me. I had no idea which way I was likely to go until one weekend when my older brother returned on leave from the army with three of his mates. That weekend was to have a profound effect on me and confirmed what I wanted for my future.

My brother had been the first soldier in our family for several generations. During World War II both my grandfathers had commitments in the coalmines under what was termed reserved employment, whereby even if they had wanted to join up, their jobs as mine-workers restricted them to the colliery. My maternal great-grandfather was the only soldier I was aware of in a direct blood-line. He had won the Distinguished Conduct Medal at the Somme while serving with the 2nd Battalion, The Welsh Regiment. He was in his late thirties at the time, and probably went to war because the money was better than in mining. He paid the price for his actions, though, and spent a long period of time on his return recuperating after being mustard-gassed by the Germans during the trench warfare that was the horrendous trademark of that campaign.

I was completely overwhelmed by the friendship and loyalty my brother and his mates showed towards each other. They would do each other’s ironing, lend each other clothes and money, and they all looked very fit and suntanned, having just returned from exercise in Canada. And if pushed into a corner they were more than capable of looking after themselves, either as individuals or as a group. I had a good bunch of schoolmates who were great fun, and we stuck together, but these four were way beyond the level of friendship I had with them. Before the week was out I had spoken to my father and told him of my intentions. It was not a problem for him or my mother – I think they were quietly happy about my decision after seeing what my brother had achieved – but because I was underage for adult service, I needed his permission and his signature on the forms to allow me to join up. I think he was quite pleased that after so many years of being a bit of a daydreamer and obviously not being destined to go to Oxbridge, I had made a decision for myself. Even if it was influenced by circumstances close to home, this was the first positive sign I had shown for some time. I had initially wanted to join my brother’s regiment straight away, but the four of them convinced me that I should join a corps first and gain a trade. If I still wanted to go into their regiment after that, then at least I would have something to fall back on for the future should things not turn out for the best. It made sense.

My father and I travelled to the army careers office in Cardiff, and I went through the various tests and interviews to gain entry as a junior soldier. Surprisingly, I passed all the tests with flying colours and was given the option of entering any arm or service, with a range of trades on offer, from taking up employment in the Army Air Corps as a helicopter mechanic through to being a Pioneer Corps trench-digger. I opted for a middle-of-the-road choice and took my oath of allegiance to Queen and country.

That September I arrived at the Army Apprentice College in Chepstow, not a million miles from home but far enough away for a new start in an adult life. I was to embark on a two-year apprenticeship as plant operator and mechanic with the Royal Engineers. Chepstow offered a good learning curve for a sometimes wayward sixteen-year-old, but there was still something missing. The soldiers in the corps I was with did not have the same bond of comradeship I had seen in my brother and his mates. There was just something that I could never quite put my finger on which made them different. After a while I began to get itchy feet.

I decided that after finishing my apprenticeship I would transfer to my brother’s regiment and join the Royal Armoured Corps. During the period after finishing at Chepstow I was at the School of Engineering in Chatham, Kent, completing my City and Guilds in plant engineering, when I approached the adjutant and told him about my wish to transfer. He completely dismissed my request and told me that because of the amount of money invested in my training by the corps I was destined to stay with the Royal Engineers for a minimum period of three years. Wrong. The British Army has some strange and ancient traditions, one of which is an historic rule that allows brothers, sons and fathers to ‘claim’ their blood relatives into whichever regiment of corps they are in – with the consent of both parties, of course. So, with the shake of a short stick, I was on my way to Catterick Garrison in Yorkshire, much to the annoyance of my sapper adjutant.

Catterick at the time was the Royal Armoured Corps training centre. It was where newly joined-up recruits went through what the army calls Basic Military Training. This includes a period of drill, weapons handling followed by drill, bed-pack-making with a hint of drill and when there were periods between bulling boots and being shouted at there would always be the opportunity for a short period of more drill.

After this initial ‘beasting’ period the recruits then progressed to trade training. My contemporaries at Chepstow had moved on to their basic military training at the Royal Engineers Training Regiment in Dover, Kent, while I had been at Chatham. I would have been due to follow them into this abyss after completing my exams. It was time for me to put to the test my well-honed skills at bluff and double bluff. With all the brass neck I could muster, I strolled into the chief clerk’s office of the resident armoured corps training regiment and announced myself as Sapper Lewis, recently transferred from the Royal Engineers at Chatham for trade training with his regiment, prior to posting. He immediately took my bundle of paperwork and documents and rang the guardroom and informed them that I was to be allocated a single room in the permanent staff block away from the recruits. The grin on my face on the walk up to the block would have put the proverbial Cheshire cat to shame. I had managed to sneak through the net and into the regular army without having to go through the drill and bullshit of basic training. I wonder how many other soldiers can claim the same?

Trade training progressed, and after passing the various phases in the driving and basic maintenance of tracked vehicles I moved on to the signals wing to complete my basic radio course. I collected my posting order to Germany soon after. By the middle of August 1978 I was in Hohne Garrison, near Bergen-Belsen, in a reconnaissance regiment equipped with Scimitar and Scorpion light armoured vehicles. Hohne was not exactly the best place in the world. It was home to a few thousand troops from a variety of countries, including American and Dutch conscripts. The latter were the butt of endless ribbing from the British troops. They were quite well equipped, had casually styled uniforms and most resembled Anneka Rice with their long, flowing blond hair. They invariably sauntered around the garrison with cigarettes dangling from the sides of their mouths and were not the slightest bit interested in being soldiers. I often toyed with the idea of doing a runner to Amsterdam, claiming asylum, and returning to Hohne as a ‘Cloggie’ conscript soldier, so I could walk around camp with my hands in my pockets and a strange-smelling roll-up cigarette dangling precariously from my lips.

Hohne was also home to several other British Army regiments. It also contained the sum total of one nightclub, which was frequented by all parties. Friday and Saturday nights were always the scene of pitched battles between rival units, a bit like being back home, really. The club concerned made a fortune in overpriced beer sales, which probably more than adequately covered the cost of the glasses smashed every night and the windows that were caved in by flying bar stools from time to time. It really was the stuff of television Western-style bar-room brawls. However, this was for real. It was not unusual to go out into the early-morning light after leaving the club to see a line of blue flashing lights on vehicles belonging to Military Police representatives from several NATO countries who were helping the German civilian police to keep the soldiers from their various nations in order, a job they were most welcome to.

For the first few years my view of the army was distorted by the fact that all the places I had been so far were training establishments. Lance-corporals ran around shooting, corporals walked about shouting, sergeants stood still and pointed while they shouted, and everyone was scared shitless of the guy who was known as the sergeant-major. Officers never spoke to you properly. The only contact I really made with any officers was when I saluted them as I moved around camp and said ‘Good morning’ or ‘Good afternoon, sir’, which was invariably ignored other than for a pathetic reciprocal salute. After three years I still did not actually know what officers did. Twenty-three years later I could probably still toss a coin over that one.

With this distorted view it was an amazing shock to the system to arrive at my new regiment on a Friday afternoon to find the squadron I was joining in the throes of a ‘happy hour’. This time-honoured tradition consisted of everyone leaving the cookhouse on a Friday lunchtime and going straight to the squadron bar. All ranks from troopers through to warrant officer, from second lieutenant to major, were all in the bar, all in work dress, and all drinking and having a laugh together. I was greeted at the squadron block by my brother and two of his mates, whom I knew well from their previous stays at my parents’ home. My cases were unceremoniously dumped in the clerk’s office and I was taken to the squadron bar. There were handshakes all round and load of introductions made; things were looking very good. One of the first introductions was to my new squadron sergeant-major, the man with the dreaded rank. He looked at me, asked me what I wanted to drink and then proceeded to give me my welcome interview to the squadron there and then, in the bar. This chat was swiftly followed by my introduction to the squadron leader, a major by rank, who tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I was as handy a rugby player as my brother was. This appeared to be his main concern. He told me that he hoped I would be turning out regularly for both the squadron and regimental teams. The icing on the cake, after he had brought me my drink, was to ask me which troop I fancied going to. What the hell was going on here?

The choice of troop he gave me was quite laughable. In his well-toned but slightly drink-slurred upper-class voice, he informed me that 2nd Troop were off to Berlin, ‘for a jolly’, 3rd Troop were off to the South of France canoeing for two weeks, and I could make my own choice as to which troop I wished to join. The following week saw me in the French sunshine with 3rd Troop for two weeks. The canoes appeared once for the obligatory photograph for the regimental journal and were never seen again until we returned to Hohne.

Exercises came and went. I enjoyed being out of camp with my new troop on these various military schemes and found myself starting to want to progress within my squadron. I had managed to convince my troop leader to give me the chance of moving out of the driver’s seat into the turret and becoming a radio operator. I quickly learnt that if you wanted to get noticed and promoted you had to be seen and heard. Staying cooped up in the driver’s seat of an armoured vehicle is not the best place to be for this. Range periods came and went as well, and I found that gunnery was enjoyable as well as being a necessary requirement for gaining promotion. I was determined to get on the first rung of the ladder. I was promoted to lance-corporal, and soon after, in my usual style, I was reduced in rank back to trooper. Our troop had been laid up for the night and we had worked out a rota for radio watch during the small hours. I was due to be on duty from four in the morning until five, and so got my head down for the night. The bloke I would be taking over from would give me a shout just prior to me taking over radio watch. The wake-up call did not come; the bloke concerned had fallen asleep during his stag. We had a visit from one of the exercise-directing staff at half-past four and yours truly was fast asleep inside a lovely warm sleeping bag. On return to camp I was marched in front of the commanding officer, bollocked, fined, reduced in rank and marched out. Easy as that. No explanation was offered by me as it was bound to fall on stony ground. The fat bastard who failed to stay awake for his duty said nothing.

True to form and with a macabre sense of humour found only in the forces, I was greeted by a mate of mine walking down the corridor after I had just been marched out by the RSM (Regimental Sergeant-Major). As we approached each other he burst into song. The song was ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ previously performed in far better style by the group Queen. We both burst out laughing. What else was there to do? He, like me, was to be reduced to trooper within the next ten minutes. The sight of him in the NAAFI later that afternoon was the immediate cue for me to reciprocate his earlier serenade with a rendition of ‘Yesterday’, with apologies to Paul McCartney for my strained attempt.

During mid-1979 knowing whispers were busily relayed around the regiment that we were to be posted as a unit to Northern Ireland. It started in the wives’ club, and soon after the commanding officer was formally told about the deployment. It is a strange and quaint military system, really, where the regimental wives started packing their boxes to move and the soldiers of the regiment have not been properly informed of anything regarding the posting. Some days later we were gathered in the cinema in Hohne for a commanding officer’s address. Rumours were correct. Omagh, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland, was to be work, rest and play for the next two years, from late 1980 till 1982, in an infantry role. What a bummer.

I knew nothing about Omagh other than for soldiers it was considered to be a fairly safe posting, if there was such a thing in Northern Ireland. Families were to accompany the regiment on this two-year tour. It was bad enough for some of the blokes to face up to the prospect of the posting; for the wives and children who knew even less than us the next few months would be a very trying time. There were to be over six hundred shooting incidents, four hundred explosions and a total of over seventy deaths in 1980 alone. Of these deaths eight were soldiers, most of whom were based in the major cities of Belfast and Londonderry. However tragic and pointless their deaths were, it was more or less expected that someone would be killed during tours in these parts of the Province. We hoped for a better deal.

Throughout late 1979 and into 1980 the hunger strike was to manoeuvre itself into a higher media profile. Various requests were made for the so-called five demands to be granted to prisoners by high-ranking republican figures. It was a serious time in the Province, and we were due to arrive there right in the middle of the situation. The IRA had extended their murderous activities to include prison officers working at locations where republican prisoners were held, and during one of their attacks they had killed the wife of one of these men. Not exactly the type of news to be welcomed by wives of soldiers due to arrive in the Province within the next few weeks.

The demands being made by the prisoners were the right to wear their own clothes, the right to refuse to work, the right to associate with other prisoners, the right to recreation and education, and the right to their remission being restored. It was to be the hunger strike which was to dominate the two years of my time in the Province. The terrorist threat from the IRA still loomed, the killings were still going on, but in comparison with previous years the number of soldiers killed had decreased dramatically for some unknown reason.

My Northern Ireland training began. I was to be initiated into the art of being an infantry soldier, a different world from the one I had been used to over the previous few years. I had become accustomed to the ‘cavalry’ way of doing things, which was always a very comfortable way of dealing with life in the army, especially when we were away from camp on military exercises all over the country. Even on large NATO exercises in Germany it was not unknown for us to hide away our troop’s armoured vehicles in large barns, leave one man on radio watch and another on guard stag, while the remainder of the troop would stroll into the local village and spend the evening in the local guest-house. They were always great places for some hot food and a few beers on cold winter nights. Reality hit me straight between the eyes when we were all called, by troop, to the regimental quartermaster’s department. I was issued with new patrol boots, which were higher than the normal issue we wore for work on the tank park. These gave the calf muscles extra support and they were a hell of a lot lighter and ideal for running in. We were given a new style of black padded gloves which were warm and comfortable, in complete contrast to the normal green woollen issue which some civil servant in the procurement department must have been given a serious back-hander to take on as a job lot from some supplier. These were just a few of the ‘goodies’ that were now on our signatures, and they were all welcome improvements. The other items of equipment we were given were the ones to set my mind thinking about the next few years ahead of us – riot helmet, flak jackets, extra first-field wound dressing and morphine ampoules.

Our training had begun.