Soldier Of The Queen (15 page)

The VCP would be surrounded by trip wires armed with flares at night - disarmed during the day. If a flare went off you would automatically want to open fire. However, the intruders were always animals. It was in an incident like that around that time that I shot my first sheep. In fact, soldiers often accidentally shot sheep or rabbits or foxes or even, occasionally, cows. In fact, no animal was safe, especially if paratroopers were on duty. Sometimes we used to share a VCP with 2 Para. They were different from us, more professional, which in military terms meant they just wanted to kill things, people preferably, but any animal would do. Once we were sharing a

VCP near a farm with members of 2 Para. The farm dog would start barking whenever soldiers changed guard and moved from the sleeping quarters to the machine-gun post. The paras decided that the dog's barking would alert terrorists to the movement of soldiers when they were at their most vulnerable. So a para crawled into the farm and silenced the dog for good with a knife.

As for James Lynagh — he was part of an eight-man IRA unit wiped out by the SAS at Loughgall six years later. The RUC claimed that weapons recovered from the bodies had been used in seven murders and nine attempted murders in the previous two years.

Other strange things would happen at night when the darkness could provide cover for our antics. Around the time Bobby Sands died we tended to feel safer back at base. One evening I was on a mobile patrol roving through the countryside around Belcoo. It had been raining in that special Irish way since we had first jumped off the helicopter. Everyone was soaked. Most depressingly, all our sleeping bags were soaked, which meant that if we had to set up temporary camp we would not even be able to have the comfort of a warm sleeping bag (our "green maggot", as it was known) for a short snooze. Our corporal was equally dejected.

We decided to have a false "contact". If you encountered terrorists while on patrol and opened fire you were supposed to get on the radio immediately and shout "Contact! Contact! Contact!" That night's Quick Reaction Force would then be despatched to you swiftly by helicopter as back-up. But, most importantly, as your position had been compromised you would have to be taken back to camp to your nice warm bed and a cup of tea. We all agreed on our story in case there was an investigation: we had spotted a figure who appeared to be carrying a rifle near a tree several hundred yards away. I laughed as we took up firing positions. Then, at the corporal's command, we fired off two flares and opened fire on the tree and bushes. The sky lit up like it was Fireworks Night and the machine-gunner blasted countless rounds of tracer bullets into the tree and bushes, while we added to the show with bullets from our SLRs. Meanwhile the corporal was screaming into the radio handset: "Contact! Contact! Contact!"

Back at base they must have thought we'd encountered an IRA Flying Column. Within seven minutes we heard the whirr of the helicopter. Soldiers jumped from it before it had even touched the ground. They ran towards us, hyped up and ready for action. Our corporal pointed in the direction of the tree and the QRF soldiers moved off to hunt down the enemy, helped by the helicopter's powerful search beam. When we got back to base I could tell that some of the officers suspected something, but nothing was said. I think they put our reaction down to nervousness.

And everyone was nervous. Within days our regiment had its second casualty. A soldier was shot in the foot. Thankfully, he hadn't been shot by other soldiers — he'd shot himself. At the front of St Angelo were two watchtowers near the main gate. I was on QRF duty when the call came that there had been a shooting incident in one of the watchtowers. I ran with the others the few hundred yards to the tower and climbed to die top of the steps where I could see a soldier lying on the floor surrounded by five or six others who were shouting at him. When I got closer I could see a perfect hole in one of the prone soldier's boots. The boot was still on his foot and there was remarkably little blood. The soldier was not saying anything, just lying there rigid, his face drained of colour. He was obviously in shock, but the other soldiers were giving him abuse, rather than sympathy. Someone kept screaming: "What the fuck have you done? What the fuck have you done?" They eventually put him on a stretcher and carried him to a helicopter which flew him to hospital. Later he claimed the gun had gone off accidentally while he was sitting with his foot up.

He might have been telling the truth, but no-one believed him.

Bobby Sand died on the Tuesday. The Fermanagh Provos took their revenge on the Saturday.

I was lying on my bed in our sleeping quarters, reading someone else's tabloid newspaper. The other members of that night's Quick Reaction Force were either lying on their beds or sitting in twos and threes around the room, talking quietly and seriously. Bobby Sands's death and our thoughts about its possible consequences had removed all lightness from the atmosphere. Everyone expected something unpleasant just around the
corner.
Phil Collins, as
always,
provided the background music: ". . . coming in the air tonight, oh Lord,

oh Loooorrddd. . It was around 10.30 p.m., too early to bother trying to sleep. I half expected we'd get called out at some point that night. I imagined the local republicans getting tanked up in the pubs to mark the passing of their MP. They would soon be spilling out onto the streets looking for targets they could vent their anger on.

I threw the newspaper down and sat up just as the door flew open. A soldier shouted: "Heli-pad! Heli-pad! They've attacked Rosslea!" We burst into activity, grabbing our weapons and running out the door into the slumbering camp. A few hundred yards away on the heli-pad I could see the rotors of the Lynx in full frenetic spin. I threw myself into the helicopter and huddled down in the seat behind the pilot. Within seconds everyone was aboard and the Lynx lifted up smoothly. Then, as it passed the roofs of the watchtowers, a powerful thrust from the engine sent the sleek machine zooming off into the darkness.

"
Mortar attack. Rosslea," shouted the brick commander. I felt my stomach slipping an inch - I knew almost all the soldiers at Rosslea, although I had no close friends there. It was one of the smallest and most vulnerable camps, usually described as a joint RUC/Army base. In fact it was little more than an old police station based in what looked like a normal four-bedroom family house with four Portakabins in the garden. A barbed wire fence surrounded the camp, which stood alone, apart from a pig farm next door. I had been there a few times and each time had felt relieved to get back to St Angelo, which by comparison was an impregnable fortress. The person I knew best at Rosslea was Edwards, a Catholic from Liverpool. I had been through basic training with him and liked him. He was quiet, tending to keep himself to

himself, but he could be a good laugh. I felt anxious for him and hoped he was not now "fertiliser" — our slang for the dead victims of explosions.

The pilot was in contact with Rosslea and through the information he relayed to our brick commander I could tell the base was in total panic. People were shouting and screaming down the radio. I looked out of the window. At first I could see nothing, only blackness, but within a few minutes an orange glow appeared in the distance. As we got closer the glow got bigger until I could clearly make out flames. The atmosphere in the helicopter was full of fear and tension. In no time at all we were there and, as the helicopter circled, we found ourselves looking down on a scene of devastation. The whole camp seemed alight: orange and yellow flames danced madly around plumes of grey-black smoke. I could make out figures running around the flames. I felt a dryness in my mouth and a sickness in my stomach. The pilot was looking for a safe spot to land: he had to be careful — we had been told there were unexploded mortars on the ground. As the helicopter hovered I watched the scene below with horrified fascination. I knew there had to be casualties. Surely the Provos could not blast the camp apart like that and not hit anyone? I felt almost hypnotised by the mayhem. In that half-trance part of me was expecting the professionals to arrive to sort things out. Then the reality hit me: we were the professionals - we were the ones the people on the ground were waiting for to sort things out.

The helicopter landed in a field opposite the base. For a second I felt as if I could not move, but as the others started to jump out I forced myself up. The Lynx lifted off as soon as the last person had jumped out. I don't think any of us knew what we were going to do. We all ran towards a hole in the fence, which had bits of Portakabin hanging off it. Groups of soldiers had gathered just inside the perimeter, away from the flames. Everyone looked dazed and shocked. Nearby I saw one group kneeling over a figure stretched out on the ground.

I said to one: "What the fuck's happening?"

He said: "Mortars. Some haven't gone off."

I asked if anyone was hurt.

He said: "Edwards." He pointed to the figure on the ground.

I felt sick as I ran to where he was lying. The others beside him seemed to be too shocked to do anything. I knelt down beside them and could hardly recognise the prone figure as Edwards. He was shaking and making gibbering noises, but what struck me most at first glance was how dirty he was: his face and clothes were covered in filth. Then I noticed his wounds. There was a gash on his face, starting on his cheek and stretching down past the jaw, but most sickeningly his right side had been ripped open. Blood was oozing out of the wound, which must have stretched for about 18 inches down his side and into his back.

I said: "Where's the first aid kit?"

I was told they could not find it: everything had been blown away. Even the electricity was off: the only light came from the flames. Edwards, barely conscious, was just shaking with shock. I thought: "Fuck. He's going to die." I shouted for them to get some bandages or something - anything - which I could use to press down on the wounds to try to stem the blood flow. Someone ran over to the wreckage and came back with something. He handed me several pairs of clean socks. I started pressing them into the wounds. Soon Edwards was lying there with socks hanging out of his side and face. I asked if they had called the emergency services. They said the fire brigade was on its way, but the ambulance service would not come out this far.

I said: "We've got to get the helicopter back to get him to hospital."

The QRF's sergeant, who had initially been speechless with shock, got on the radio. Edwards started gibbering manically.

"
Calm down! Calm down! It's me, Bernie," I said. I was shocked to see my friend in such a state. I kept saying: "Clarkey, Clarkey. You're all right. Stop moaning." Why I called him Clarke - the name of another soldier I'd met at Sutton Coldfield selection centre - I shall never know. I was terrified he was dying in front of me.

Another sergeant was telling everyone to get out of the camp and to take up firing positions in the field: he was worried about unexploded mortars and the possibility of a follow-up attack. I and a few others insisted on staying with Edwards. The QRF sergeant was having an argument with the helicopter pilot, who was saying it was too dangerous to land. Our sergeant started screaming down the mouthpiece at him until he relented. The pilot said he would not land too near the camp: he suggested a spot in the middle of a nearby field. During this time someone had managed to find a stretcher. We put Edwards on it and wound a ragged blanket around his body to hold in the socks. We picked up the stretcher and ran with it through the hole in the fence. We watched the helicopter circling and heard the reassuring DUB-DUB-DUB-DUB-DUB of its rotors as it dipped down towards us. As we ran we saw the helicopter almost touch the ground a few hundred yards away. It hovered a few feet off the ground, waiting for its cargo. As we ran we could not help bouncing Edwards in the stretcher. He shouted out in pain.

To our frustration there was a ditch and a hedge between us and the helicopter. I told four of the others to jump over the hedge and be ready to receive the stretcher. They climbed over the hedge and found themselves on raised ground. By this time Edwards was moaning: "Ooooooooohhhhhhh!!" The rest of us stood in the ditch and lifted up the stretcher. Those on the other side grabbed one end of it and pulled. Unfortunately, none of us noticed that the ragged blanket had got caught in the hedge. So when they pulled the stretcher free and started running with it the trapped blanket held on to Edwards - and catapulted him back into the ditch on top of us. Meanwhile the others, perhaps in shock, were still running towards the waiting helicopter with the empty stretcher. As three of us lay in a heap in the ditch with Edwards on top of us moaning even louder than before I burst out laughing. This farce amid the horror had set me off. The stretcher-bearers soon realised they had lost their patient and came running back. They threw over the stretcher as we disentangled ourselves and stood up. We put Edwards back on the stretcher and passed it over again. This time he stayed with the stretcher.

I watched as they ran to the helicopter and placed the stretcher inside. The helicopter lifted off and disappeared into the darkness.

At that moment I felt a powerful hatred for the Provos. Edwards was a good man: he didn't deserve to die. I dearly hoped I'd get a chance to kill one of the bastards who had done that to him. We ran back to the camp. Everyone had taken up firing positions outside the perimeter fence, but well away from some unexploded mortars which lay smouldering in one of the fields. Within ten minutes several fire engines had arrived. They had powerful lights which enabled us to see more clearly as we were now some way from the dying flames. The firemen unreeled their hoses but, as they turned on the water, some ammunition stored in one of the Portakabins started going off. The bullets made a DO-DO-DO-DO-DO sound. The firemen must have assumed that the Provos had launched a follow-up attack, because as soon as they heard the bullets they dropped the hoses, jumped into their fire engines and drove off, hoses trailing behind them, spewing water all over the road.