Soldier Of The Queen (19 page)

The deaths of the two hunger strikers on the same day brought a whirlwind of violence across Northern Ireland. Around 10,000 petrol bombs were thrown at the security forces in the week that followed. Fortunately, none of them was aimed at me. On patrol we encountered a lot of hostility, but it was more often of the brooding, silent kind, which in some ways was more difficult to deal with. The camp was always buzzing with activity. As St Angelo was the main headquarters for Fermanagh there were all sorts of people drifting in and out, including lots of spooks (members of military intelligence) or people I assumed were spooks. You never knew for sure: they never spoke to anyone. The SAS team also kept themselves to themselves. There were several SAS men - and you wouldn't even get a hello out of them. A lot of keep-fit lunatics used to run around the camp with bricks or other weights strapped to their legs or backs. One of the SAS men trumped the lot by sticking a huge tractor tyre on his back, attached by ropes, and running around at all hours. Perhaps he was hoping to attract snipers.

In the week of the funerals of McCreesh and O'Hara the Reverend Ian Paisley boosted morale in the television room when he suggested on camera that shotguns ought to be issued to soldiers for use against street rioters. After the terrible onslaught of 10,000 petrol-bombs he thought that shot-guns would be able to clear streets of rioters without risking life in the way a bullet from a rifle might. The packed TV room burst into laughter and cheers. Some people stood on chairs and made Nazi salutes, chanting "Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!" His idea certainly had popular appeal among soldiers, although we felt the human-rights people might not approve. Another unorthodox weapon that was talked about among squaddies around this time was the PP9-size battery. We had heard that some squaddies were putting these batteries down the barrels of plastic-bullet guns to be fired at rioters along with the plastic bullets. Paisley got another cheer when he mentioned Fermanagh and South Tyrone. Apparently someone had suggested handing the constituency over to the Irish Republic.

The Reverend said: "I would not be prepared to allow any part of my country to leave the United Kingdom."

More cheering, Nazi salutes and shouts of: "Not an inch! Not an inch!"

But outside the TV room there was less bravado. People were tense and on edge, always expecting the worst, especially outside the camp. Normally in a Portakabin full of 20 soldiers you would expect a lot of horse-play and larking around, but people were too wound up to have any fun. I tried playing a few practical jokes, but they always backfired, especially if they involved objects dropping from the sky or sudden loud bangs. People were just too fragile. I would usually end up being screamed at hysterically by someone who in Germany might have laughed off my antics. Then at night it wasn't unusual to hear someone crying. I thought it wimpish, but I'd ignore it so long as the person was merely sobbing quietly into his pillow. I would only say something if thundering sobs disturbed my sleep. Then I would sometimes shout, "Shut up, you wimp," although other soldiers in the room usually shouted me down: "Leave him alone! Leave him alone!" What used to make me really sick was that the ones who soaked their pillows with tears were often the ones writing the war-hero letters to their dopey girlfriends. People often used to leave half-written letters lying around, so, being interested in the literary styles of military men, I'd read them. Some were unbelievable. They would leave me thinking, "This person is not in the same war I'm in. He's in Vietnam."

We had one spectacular crack-up. My brick of four was on foot patrol in a small village. Two of us were on one side of the street, two on the other. Suddenly the soldier in front of me sunk to his knees, letting his rifle clatter on the ground. Then he burst into tears. He just knelt there sobbing at the side of the road. Everyone panicked. We couldn't run to him, because we would have presented too easy a target to any waiting terrorists. But we could hardly leave him there, sobbing in the street for all to see. There were a few civilians around and, although they seemed politely to ignore what was going on, we didn't want to leave them with the image of a soldier whimpering in the gutter.

I kept shouting at him: "Get up, you cunt!" But he kept crying. We got on the radio and got people to come out and pick him up. Fortunately it was a quiet area and we weren't too far away from a base, so a Land Rover arrived very quickly and he was thrown into the back like a piece of rubbish. The man had had a complete breakdown. I was extremely angry with him. If he had felt that bad he shouldn't have left the camp. In a different situation he could have got us all killed. We heard later that it wasn't even the stress of Ireland that had got to him. Apparently he had just found out that his wife in Germany was being unfaithful to him. And worse — she was starring in porno movies in Hamburg.

He was transferred rapidly out of Northern Ireland. I never saw him again.

I had been separated from my two best friends when we had first arrived in Northern Ireland - and I didn't see them again until we were back in Germany.

I found myself at St Angelo with people I hardly knew and, although I got on well with a few of them, I kept most of them at a distance. Things weren't helped by the fact that I seemed to be with different people every time I went on patrol. The only constant figure in my life from the old days was the officer we had nicknamed Major Disaster or MD. My usual problems with figures of authority didn't manifest themselves with him, probably because in my eyes he didn't have any authority. I knew he was as reluctant a soldier as I was. That knowledge gave us a shared bond. He was there to keep his daddy happy and I was there to keep out of prison. I had a good relationship with him and at times I felt we had a true friendship. Often on VCPs we would sit talking into the small hours about our very different lives and upbringings.

MD conformed and always had - it made financial sense -whereas I had always rebelled. I think he liked what he saw as my free spirit and he would treat my antics with amused horror. Instead of ticking me off he would laugh and say: "Please, O'Mahoney. Not in front of me, you uncouth bastard." He was a strangely innocent character, vulnerable even. He could not spot danger and did not wish ill on anybody. I tended to see danger everywhere and wished ill on everybody. So although I liked him personally, I didn't particularly enjoy going on patrol with him, because he was always doing things that jarred the nerves. In the countryside dairy farmers would leave milk destined for the creamery in churns on wooden platforms by the sides of roads. The IRA had often used these milk-churns as bombs and most of us were extremely wary of them. In fact when you saw one your first thought was: "Bomb" — a good example of how the fear of terrorism distorts your imagination. You're scared of everything; you're scared of what might be there, even though most of the time it's not there. There were procedures for dealing with milk churns which usually meant taking a detour around them. MD's technique was to walk right up to them, take off the lid and stick his head inside. We would scurry for cover whenever we saw him striding off amiably down the road towards a milk-churn. He wasn't fearless, just clueless.

He was always in trouble, because of the mess he made of everything. In the best comic traditions of the well-meaning British amateur he would bumble into complicated situations - and make them worse. Some of our patrols had a truly pantomime quality. While our pantomime performances were normally only witnessed by a few civilians, there were a few occasions when a senior officer got a ringside seat. One time a colonel decided to join us on a countryside patrol. He should never have come out with us, because he was too much of a target, but I suppose he'd wanted to make the point that he wasn't just a pen-pusher, that he could hack his way through hedgerows with the lads.

MD had said to us before the colonel joined us at the briefing: "Let's put on a good show. Everything by the book." We tried not to let MD down. A helicopter dropped us in the middle of nowhere. We moved across open ground following the textbook procedure with MD leading from the front, desperately trying to remember everything he had been taught at Sandhurst. It was really a process of running and hiding behind rocks and hedges. At any one time half of you are covering the half who are on the move. So you would zig-zag for 15 to 20 yards, drop to the ground, preferably behind a rock or a hedge, and point your rifle at the cows. Then at the patrol leader's signal the other half would zig-zag past you to a point in front and do the same. The patrol leader needs to co-ordinate this movement efficiently to make sure no-one is left behind. Unfortunately, after we had travelled across several fields of peat-bog MD realised he had left the colonel behind: he was still crouched behind a hedge two fields back waiting for the order to advance. I only realised what had happened when MD, flushed and sweating, stood up and told us we were going back the way we had come. We retraced our steps until we reached the colonel whose rage-filled face peeped out from behind the hedge where he'd been left. He didn't say anything to Major Disaster in front of us, but MD told me later that back at camp the colonel had given him "a few words of advice".

None of us liked having senior officers accompanying us on patrol. Fortunately, they didn't feel the need to put their lives on the line too often. We had been told from the first day in Northern Ireland that outside camp in front of civilians we were never to address officers as "Sir". And they would never wear badges of rank. These precautions were meant to prevent terrorists identifying them as officers (although I'd have thought that in most cases, especially in our "cavalry" regiment, officers only had to open their well-spoken mouths to be identified as officers). The thinking was that an officer would present a more tempting target than a mere squaddie. I understood the logic of this, but I still resented it, especially when the officers who in camp would put you on a charge for not calling them "Sir" were the ones who outside camp would be most upset if you called them "Sir". At checkpoints I made a point of calling officers "Sir" whenever I could, especially in front of Catholics.

Some officers would get really freaked: "O'Mahoney! Don't call me 'Sir'. How many times do you have to be told?"

There was one senior officer I especially loathed: rosy cheeks, little round glasses and a squeaky voice. He looked like that runt out of the
Carry On
films. One day Major Disaster informed us that this officer was going to come out with us. I thought: "Another idiot to carry." We spent the day setting up roving checkpoints. You were supposed to be polite to civilians ("Good evening, Madam. Could I see your driving licence, please? Thank you."), although that was not something I usually managed. However, whenever the senior officer was in earshot I tried to be reasonably civil. We set up a checkpoint in an area which contained a few notorious republican families. We would carry a green field book containing cards with pictures and details of known and suspected terrorists.

In that area there was one family that seemed to take up a whole volume. One branch ran a pub. The husband had gone on the run in the Republic, but his wife had stayed behind to be unpleasant to soldiers. She would torch you with her hatred and abuse. I'd encountered her a few times and come close to breaking my vow never to hit a woman. I was sure we were going to bump into her: she was the type who'd drive around all day and night in the hope of meeting soldiers to abuse. She didn't disappoint me: just as the sun was going down she drove into view. I made her stop the car. Major Disaster and the other officer were standing nearby, but at the passenger side. This meant they could hear only what I said, not what she said. With this in mind I asked her for her licence politely.

She replied: "You fucking English bastard." I think two soldiers or policemen had been killed in Belfast earlier in the day. She added that I would burn in hell with those bastards.

I dropped the mask of politeness and started swearing at her loudly, telling her to give me the fucking licence or I would drag her out of the car and take it off her. I could see the senior officer's face changing to a look of deep concern. He was clearly horrified to hear me talking in this way to a woman.

I heard him say to MD: "I think I'd better deal with this."

MD said to me: "Mahoney, move."

The senior officer came round to the driver's side and said: "I'm very sorry about this, madam. May I see your driving licence?"

She stared at him for about a second, before shouting: "You fucking four-eyed English bastard. I hope you burn in fucking hell with ..." I doubt whether he had heard a woman swear before, let alone swear at him. He wouldn't have looked more shocked if she had pulled out a gun and shot him. He stepped back and told me to deal with it.

I pulled open her door and stuck my head right in so that I was inches from her face. I told her to give me the licence or she was coming out of the car by her hair. She handed me the licence.

When she had driven off the officer said: "Top marks, O'Mahoney. That's how to deal with them."

I said: "Thank you, Sir." He said: "Don't call me 'Sir' out here. You should know that by now."

Back at St Angelo someone put up on the noticeboard a leaflet issued by the well-known Catholic priest, Fr Denis Faul. It contained advice about the legal rights of those detained by the security forces. It included one line which caused great amusement: "Suffer patiently while they beat you up." The funniest bit, however, was the section on what soldiers could and could not do at checkpoints. The leaflet read: