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"He wants me to take a bloke out from Brigade on my next
patrol. One of those 'I've been to Crossmaglen' things." I don't say a word. It seems that this place attracts the daytrippers from desk jobs in search of a thrill so that they can go back to England and say "Of course, I've been to Crossmaglen." They are time-wasters and put lives at risk more often than not. If they want to come
down here they should do a tour,
perhaps that would cure them.

We even had a chopper-load of strippers flown down to see the troops, who were all on the ground protecting them from the possibility of another attack on the aircraft carrying them. So all they saw were the cooks and a handful of half-asleep toms who had just come off a four-day patrol.

"Well, there are going to be a lot more of them coming before the tour is over," I say at last.

"I guess you're right, but can't you have a word with the O.C. anyway and see if there is anything we can do about it?"

"I'll try, but I doubt it will do any good."

"O.K. boss, now if you would like to fuck off, I can get some sleep.
"

"Cheers.
"

I leave him quacking and wander round the base like a lost soul. There is nothing stirring at this time of the morning except a dozing Sgt. Major in the Ops. Room and the cook beginning breakfast. Not even the sound of a helicopter disturbs the quiet and I want to stay awake as long as possible to enjoy this private time, before the bustle of base life resumes in earnest for another day.

My reverie is disturbed by the sound of panting and running feet, and round the corner of the bunkhouse comes one of the toms, dressed in plastic waterproofs, on his daily weight-reducing jog around the base. Someone computed that one mile was equal to about thirty laps, avoiding scaffolding, plastic rubbish bags, other people walking round the camp and sundry other obstacles.

"Come on you fat fucker, run!" I shout encouragement and miss with a kick at his retreating rotund behind.

"You can't crack me," he shouts, panting out of sight.

"Lunch is ready, if you want any, sir."

I wake to the horrific sight of the Sgt. Major's grinning face outlined in the door of my bunk.

"What time is it?"

"1300 and if you don't come quick, J.C.B. i
s going to have the lot.
" His face disappears and only the dismembered cackle remains. My head feels woolly and my eyes don't focus too well. It may be daylight outside but in here it's black. I switch on the light and search for my denims and boots, get dressed, stagger out into the narrow corridor and head for the noise in the Mess.

It seems there is standing room only at the table today, but a couple are just about finishing, so by the time I get back up from the cookhouse with my scoff, there will be an empty place.

The conversation is all shop as can be expected so it is a relief when the place empties and there is
only myself, my Sgt. and the C.
S.M. The two of them are busy discussing admin., to which I am only listening with half an ear. I'm still half-asleep and don't particularly want to wake up just yet, trying to cling on to the dream I was having about naked women and South Sea Islands before I was so rudely interrupted.

"I see your boss is alert and happy," says the C.S.M.

"You want to see him when he's asleep."

"Fuck off you two, I'm communing with my inner being.
"
Derisive gestures and quacks.

"I reckon he's cracking, what do you think Sgt. Denny?"

"For sure, for sure." It goes on and on and I just sit and let it go over my head, brain not capable of witty repartee.

"Enough, enough, I give up. What do you want from me?"

"Someone to run the film this afternoon, boss."

"Well that's not so bad. Could be a lot worse. O.K. will
do.
"

The next patrol is at 2200 hrs. tonight, so there is plenty of time to get sorted after the film and at least the guys will have something to take their minds off the five days to come.

I finish my food, lean back, yawn, stretch and start thinking what to do or rather what has to be done in the next few hours before it's patrol time again. Work out a route, checking the route map in the Int. cell to make sure that I don't go over any old ground and follow previous trails. Organise the rations, sort out the equipment required and whatever else needs to be

done.

"When are you out, Jimmy?"

"1900 hrs.
, the chopper comes in."

"I'll run the film at about 1400 hrs. then, give your guys a chance to see it before they go out."

He nods, gets up and goes off whistling to himself. The C.S.M. lights another cigarette, leans back and sips his tea between clouds of smoke.

"You're looking pale Sar'nt Major. You should get out on the ground, get some fresh air into those decimated lungs of yours.
"

"Fuck off sir, I'll leave all that stuff to you lot. I'm too old for that sort of thing."

"True, true," I say and dodge the lump of butter tossed at my head.

"You know sir, you're not at all like an officer," he says.

"Oh, and what is an officer like?"

"You know what I mean. You're easier to get along with than most of them, even though you are a wanker."

"Thanks very much, you're not bad, for a wrinkled prune, yourself."

The O.C. comes in and interrupts our slanging match going on about patrol states, what we are going to do next, admin. and such like. Looking at him while he talks, I'm not listening to him, just thinking what a strange guy he is. He seems to live in a world of his own, in a self-contained cell that is impossible to penetrate. To me, he has always been generous and we get on well, but to the toms he is the "O.C." and to him they are just things that are there to get the job done. He may be good at paperwork, but man-management is something that he knows nothing of, which is very sad.

He and the C. S.M. are talking about the next patrol to take over the O'Meath V.C.P. on the border and a nice little number for a week, although there is always the danger that it will get blown up again. I was there in June and it was a great week just relaxing, searching cars, watching the Olympics on the T.V. and shooting the odd rats that roam around the accommodation. Wouldn't mind another week there, it certainly is a cushy number, with its own little helipad and the beauty of Carlingford Lough.

"What do you think, Tony?" The
O.
C. is talking to me and I'm not listening.

"I'm sorry I was miles away."

The discussion is about some reorganisation that the O.C. has dreamed up, and continues for the next fifteen minutes until I excuse myself to put on the film in the cookhouse.

I know what it is before the sound carries. The ground shakes a split second before the earsplitting crunch of the explosion drowns out the sound-track of the film. For a moment, there is stunned inaction, then chaos.

"Mortars!" shouts someone, but there is no sound of falling masonry.

"Shut up and get out and get your weapons," I shout, feeling a dread within me.

Outside in the compound, toms are racing around as if their balls have been cut off.

"Listen you cunts, just calm down and get to your stand-to positions. Don't run around like fucking idiots."

The only place I'm going to find out what has happened is in the Ops. Room, so that's where I'm headed. By the pale faces I know it is bad and it has happened to one of my patrols. Just half an hour ago I sent a patrol out to secure the area around the helipad because some top R.A.F. officer wanted to have some practice runs into the helipad. The patrol were just on their way in.

"It's a bomb in the square Tony, one dead."

One tom dead in the square.
One tom sacrificed on the altar
of political ineptitude. One tom publicly exe
cuted in the name
of freedom.

"How?" I ask, numb.

"We don't know yet, the stand-by section are out there and the Saracen to pick up the body."

I can't stay in the Ops
. Room any longer, the rage and
emotion in me are on the point of bursting out. I just wander around the camp, checking the O.P.s, getting myself under control. It's happened just as I thought, a bomb close in, right under our noses so that it has maximum effect on morale. The only saving grace is that it only took out one of the patrol and not the whole lot. God how I hate this place!

The C.
S.M. is coming towards me.

"They're bringing him in now sir, and the patrol should be in shortly. It's Pte. Lancing."

"Thanks Sar'nt Major. I'll be along in a minute."

Pull yourself together Clarke, you've got to sort out the patrol when they come in and make them angry in order to chase the shock and horror away and get them working efficiently again.

The front gate opens and the Saracen drives in bear
ing its pathetic burden. The C.
Sgt. is ready with the body bag and it doesn't take long to remove the dog-tags and other personal possessions. There is not much left of the right side of his body. Once in the bag, he is just another memory written in blood on the streets and consciences of Ulster, soon to be forgotten. The patrol comes in looking ashen-faced and shaken.

"O.K. you guys, into the stand-by room." I reckon that if I can isolate them I can get through to them.

"Now listen to me. It's happened and that's that. If you don't want to go the same way, then you had better pull yourselves together. As soon as you leave this room you're back on duty, so if you want to fall apart, do it now and get it over with."

The harsh words seem to have the desired effect and those on the verge of tears choke them back
and bring themselves
under control. "Now, tell me what happened."

Cpl. Edge, the patrol commander at the time, speaks. "We had finished the stake-out and were coming in by the square. I led the way up to the corner and started up towards the front gate. Lancing was behind me. As I turned around I could see him crouching down on the corner to cover the next bloke round when the bicycle that was leaning against the wall blew up." His voice was shaking but grew stronger as he recounted the events.

"O.K. Cpl. Edge, when you're ready, the O.C. wants a full report. Remember lads, as soon as you go through this door, you're back on duty." With that I leave them to it.

Dead at eighteen. Not an accident or natural catastrophe, but publicly murdered, snuffed out before he has the chance to even know what all this is about, before he has known what life is. That makes two now, because the other guy who was blown up, in Sgt. Donne's patrol, died after a week. What did they die for? The recurring question that defies answer.

The town was flooded with patrols after the incident and they are now bringing people in for questioning. Frightened people with their chests heaving and eyes wide in terror. They know that we only need the slightest excuse to beat them or shoot them and all the toms would dearly love to do the latter.

Outside, down at the square, a B.B.C. news camera crew are filming the remains like the vultures on carrion. I would dearly love to know how they managed to get down here so soon after the explosion. Fucking news teams! What do they know?

"The training is over. From now on everything you do will be for real. The next rounds you face will be live ones, headed your way with only one aim. Excuse the pun. Where we are
going, the I.R.A. don't attack unless they can virtually guarantee a kill. Whether it's a bomb or bullets. There's the possibility that some
of you will not be coming back.
"

Words from the boss. Words from me. Words you hope they'll listen to. Words that mean you and you and maybe you are pro
bably
going to die. Melodramatic words nobody wants to hear. But somehow the reality has to be faced.

"Can't we shoot them first, boss?" Laughter.

"If you can see them, you can shoot them. Just remember, you are still bound by the conditions of the yellow card. That means whatever happens, they always fire first. Whether they actually do or not, nobody will ever know. Get my meaning? As far as this platoon is concerned, anyone seen with a gun is fair game. As far as everybody else is concerned, we do everything by the yellow card." Nods of eager assent. Death in the eyes. Blood-lust. Training paying off. Not training. Conditioning. Twenty-five controlled thugs looking faintly absurd in their civilian clothes, ready for their pre-embarkation leave.

"I don't need to remind anyone that
going A.
W.O.L. at this stage of the
game is just about the worst thing you can do. From now on you are on active service. Don't ever
forget that. For the next five months your rifle will never leave your sight and walks in the country will be with pockets full of live ammunition. Anyone any questions?"

"Yes. When can we leave? The train is due any minute."