Soldier Of The Queen (11 page)

I flew back to Germany and into a barracks whispering with rumours. The main rumour was that the Ministry of Defence was considering abandoning the policy of not sending Irish regiments to Northern Ireland. The question was: which of us war-dodgers would be the first to go? Everyone thought they would send the Irish Guards because they were foot-soldiers armed with the standard Self-Loading Rifle (SLR). Most of us had not even seen an SLR, let alone fired one. As members of a tank regiment we used sub-machine-guns. But we should have had enough experience of military logic by then to know that the army would not do what was rational and sensible. Within a fortnight the news landed like a mortar among us: the 5th Royal Inniskilling Dragoon Guards were going to be given the privilege of being the first Irish regiment to be sent to the six counties. Our four and a half month tour of duty would start on 10 April 1981. What was more, we'd be going to the historical recruitment base of our regiment - Enniskillen in County Fermanagh. Depression followed the panic which followed the shock. I realised that for many the derogatory nickname "war-dodgers" had been neither unkind nor inaccurate. It became apparent that a lot of people had genuinely joined the regiment in the belief they would never have to serve in Northern Ireland. The only ones who seemed enthusiastic were a handful of Fermanagh Protestants. The regiment still attracted a lot of people from the Enniskillen area, all Protestants. Some of them had left the area because the safety of their families had been compromised through links with the Crown. A lot of them had relations in the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) or the Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR). The idea of returning to patrol their own streets appealed greatly to the staunch loyalists: some of them made it plain they had scores to settle with the Catholic population. I imagined how I might behave if sent back to patrol Codsall with a rifle.

I felt strangely neutral about the prospective tour. I had been in the army for two years by then and Germany had begun to bore me. I was not raring to go, but half of me felt quite excited by the idea. Then just as the regiment absorbed the fact that they were going, another piece of news caused further anxiety. The IRA prisoner Bobby Sands started a hunger strike on 1 March; other IRA and Irish National Liberation Army (INLA) prisoners were ready to join the hunger strike. The television news bulletins became the most popular programmes, and suddenly everyone seemed to be discussing the politics of Northern Ireland, with special reference to the hunger strike. The most common feeling among the lower ranks was that Mrs Thatcher should have given the IRA prisoners what they wanted, namely, status as political prisoners, rather than have them treated as ordinary criminals. Our reasoning was that under the Geneva Convention those Provos already in custody would then be prisoners of war with no release date, no trials and no appeals; and, most importantly, we'd then be allowed to execute summarily any of their comrades we subsequently caught not wearing uniform "on active service".

Each night on the news we would watch tensions rising in Northern Ireland. Soldiers started getting more army barmy -the barracks suddenly seemed full of fitness fanatics. I had to go back into hospital for a few weeks and so missed the week of special training at the Sennelager base - known as Tin City - where soldiers were sent to sharpen up their urban warfare skills prior to going to Ireland. I heard the week had been a fiasco: their trainers had not been impressed with their military skills. But what could they expect? We were a tank regiment; we weren't trained as foot-soldiers.

When I got back to base in late March I was told to report to a major's office in the main administrative block. The major said he knew my parents were Irish Catholics and that I had relations living near the border. He said if I strongly objected to going to Northern Ireland I would not have to go. I said I wanted to go, although I didn't explain why. My desire had nothing to do with going to fight for Queen and country. It was far more basic and simple than that: I just wanted to be with my friends. My loyalty was to them - and I had no intention of being the one waving at the gate as they left. To me it was like they were going out for a fight in the car park and I was going to join them.

The week before we went everyone was drinking heavily. One night a group of us got a taxi back to the barracks. We were all drunk. With us was one of the Ulster Protestants who was keen to get over to Ireland. For some reason he decided to jump out of the taxi before it had stopped moving. He fell badly and ended up smashing his back and losing a kidney. Somehow it seemed like a bad omen. On our last night in Germany the barracks had the atmosphere of a funeral parlour. Gloom, gloom and more gloom. Anyone who had a girlfriend was phoning home to say goodbye to her. It was like watching a bad film. Then when I thought things could not get gloomier the news came through that the IRA hunger striker Bobby Sands had just been elected to parliament for the constituency of Fermanagh-South Tyrone - the area where we would be based. There were about ten of us watching TV in the Squadron Bar when we heard. The news did not go down well: it could mean only one thing - we were going to be stuck for four and a half months in an area crawling with Provos and their sympathisers. I tried to lighten the deathly atmosphere with a joke. I said that if the locals mistreated us we'd at least know who our MP was to complain to.

Everyone turned to look at me, but no-one laughed.

Inside the Hercules aircraft that would take us to Northern Ireland we sat dejectedly. No-one spoke. The stale air seemed heavy with foreboding. Outside, the ground crew shouted and laughed as they readied the plane for take-off. To them it was just another day; to us it seemed like our last. We sat facing each other on hard wooden benches that stretched down each side of the cavernous interior. There were no windows, just a large hole at the back of the aircraft through which everyone and everything came and went. The last pieces of kit were wheeled up the ramp. Then we all watched as the plane's huge back door lifted off the ground and moved slowly upwards, gradually blacking out the natural light before slamming shut like the lid of a coffin.

Like everyone else, I had my full backpack of kit in front of me. Unlike everyone else, I did not have the standard infantryman's Self-Loading Rifle. I would not be allowed one of those until I had done my week's training at the Hollywood base on the outskirts of Belfast.

The engines started up with a blast of noise that jolted us into a more alert state of anxiety. The plane began to move. The sound of the engines got more frantic and the back door started vibrating wildly. Someone pointed at it and shouted above the noise: "It's falling apart." Everyone laughed, but uncomfortably: we all started looking intently at the door thinking he might be right. But with a final scream of effort the plane took off. During the flight a few people tried cracking jokes, but nothing could dispel the heavy feeling of gloom.

We touched down at Aldergrove Airport near Belfast. As the back door wound its way to the ground my mind filled with images of grinning Provos lifting their sniper's rifles to their shoulders.

"
OK, move!" shouted the senior officer.

We got up from the benches, slung our packs on our backs and began filing out into a massive hangar. Everyone looked lost. Around 50 yards away was another group of soldiers whose mood contrasted sharply with ours. They were overflowing with jubilation, laughing and playing like children at break-time. I soon discovered the reason for their happiness: they were on their way back to Germany. I don't know whether it was deliberate army policy always to have soldiers from incoming regiments filing past those from outgoing ones. Perhaps they thought the sight of soldiers on their way home in one piece would give us something to look forward to. If so, they were wrong: seeing the delight of the outgoing soldiers only intensified our misery.

Soon the barking started. An officer with a clipboard began shouting out names, squadrons and destinations within County Fermanagh. We had been told in Germany we were going to be split up and sent to bases at Belcoo, Lisnaskea, Belleek, Rosslea, Newtownbutler and St Angelo. So I already knew I was going to be separated from Lofty and Paul, but the reality still came as a blow. I trusted them: I knew they would have looked out for me, and I for them; in times of danger we would have been there for one another. But it was not to be. I was going to Lisnaskea; they were going to Belleek. I felt terrible, especially when I saw they'd been put with several of the regiment's most gormless prats. I felt especially sorry for Lofty, who was one of those who had joined the regiment believing he would never get posted to Northern Ireland. He had always said he would never shoot anyone, whatever happened. He hated unnecessary violence. In Germany when fighting broke out around him, which sometimes happened when he went out with me, he would look pained, put his head in his hands and say mournfully: "Oh, no!" His pacifist tendencies were well known and he could have been kept behind in Germany to work in the offices, but they seemed to make a point of sending him.

Once the division had taken place we stood bewilderedly in our groups. I nodded at Paul, who smiled back weakly. Lofty was just staring at the ground: he seemed to be muttering to himself. Nearby were several seemingly civilian lorries: some had the markings of removal firms, others advertised well-known brands of frozen food.

The officer with the clipboard pointed to the lorries and said: "Your transport to Bandit Country, gentlemen."

I had not given much thought to how we were going to get to Fermanagh, but I had assumed the army would at least put us in vehicles with some sort of armour-plating. The thought of travelling through terrorist heartlands in unprotected lorries managed to lower morale even further. However, we were not given too much time to dwell on what awaited. The barking started again and the first group were led to their lorry. Paul and Lofty's group went before mine — they got one of the removal lorries. I walked over quickly to say goodbye to them. They were sitting on the floor looking as unhappy as I had ever seen them.

"
Keep your head down, cunt," said Paul.

I smiled and said I was sure they'd get him before they got me. We bantered for a few more seconds until I saw my group move off. I said: "See you later you fucking scouse bastard." I felt awful leaving them, just gutted. A sergeant had directed my group towards a refrigerated meat lorry. Bad omen, I thought: frozen meat.

The sergeant said: "Sit in the back and don't say a fucking word. Don't make a noise until these doors open again. Even if the lorry stops — you might just be at traffic lights."

We got in and sat on the floor. The sergeant gave an evil smile before slamming shut the heavy back door and throwing us into total darkness. I had never felt so trapped and helpless. I heard the latch being locked and realised that if we were attacked we wouldn't be able to make our own way out.

The lorry started up and moved off. I could not see the other soldiers but I could smell their fear - and I am sure they could smell mine. I imagined machine-gun bullets tearing through the lorry's flimsy skin; I wondered what would be left to put in a coffin if a rocket-propelled grenade hit us. The journey in that black box lasted around three hours, although every second seemed to last an hour. I had heard stories about the IRA setting up their own checkpoints in the border area, so my heart started racing whenever the lorry stopped. You could sense the relief when it moved off again.

When not listening out for the Provo traffic police I thought morbidly of what might be in store in the months ahead. In the silence of the darkness I thought of Paul, Lofty and my family. Would I see them again? And, with Paul and Lofty, if we survived would we all be in the same state? After all, you didn't necessarily die if you were hit: you might just be wounded hideously. Which one of us would get hit? Would it be me? I imagined a reunion with Paul and Lofty; I could see myself being pushed towards them in a wheelchair; I could see them having to shake the stump where my hand had been. Everyone felt that at least one person in the regiment was going to get it. As my eyes got used to the darkness I could make out faces in the lorry. I looked into those faces and all I could think was: which one? Who is going to get taken out? I just hoped it wasn't me or my friends. Finally, the lorry stopped and I could hear English accents outside. Someone pulled open the door and the light greeted us.

Lisnaskea was a small camp built close to a school, which I assumed was meant to deter the Provos from launching mortar attacks. There were about ten Portakabins and three brick buildings surrounded by barbed wire. The conditions in the camp were squalid. I found myself sleeping in a gym where the beds were three-high and a foot apart. Even the regimental magazine — not known for subversive criticism — said it was a scene of human-rights violations. But that night the cramped squalor did not worry us too much: the psychological torture of the journey down had left us exhausted and we were grateful for any bed.

The next day I put on civilian clothes and got in an unmarked car to be taken to Hollywood Barracks near Belfast for a week's anti-terrorist training. Once again the mode of transport did not fill me with a sense of security, but I could at least look out the windows and, if necessary, open the car door. The handgun in the glove compartment made me feel a little better too. The early part of the journey, travelling along isolated country roads, filled me with apprehension, but the last stretch on the motorway made me more relaxed. I hardly took in any of the scenery: I was too busy looking out for snipers and men in balaclavas manning checkpoints.