While these four keep watch, three men and a corporal search the car and its occupants. In this instance, a single occupant, a young man of about twenty, twenty-one. Suspect age group, late teens, early twenties, so he is made to stand, hands on head, just a shirt and pullover, in the grey drizzle. Two soldiers check the inside, one has a sken in the boot. As they re-group the young man mutters under his breath, 'You bastards do this, ya know it's the greyhound meetin'. You do this every meet.'
The squaddie nearest him raises his rifle and smacks the butt into the side of his head. That shuts him up. The young man bends over, hands on head, cowering. He is bundled in the car, the door slammed shut on him, waved on. The next car takes its place at the barrier.
Dillon and his squad – Jimmy, Harry, Taffy and six Toms – stand next to the guardpost, watching. They've been out for four hours, 'tabbing around the cuds' as the Paras call patrolling the countryside, and they are good and wet and miserable, and to add further insult, the Bedford RL hasn't shown up, which is a real pisser.
Dillon glances at his watch, unnecessarily, for the third time. The truck is two minutes later than it was the last time he looked. He says to Jimmy, 'Go check where our ruddy transport is, it's half-past seven!'
The next car is a real old banger, more rust than bodywork, two teenagers inside. Same procedure as before. Made to stand, hands on heads, away from the vehicle, four rifles trained on them while the search team go to work. To vary the monotony, however, this time they decide to chuck everything inside the car, including clothing and personal belongings, onto the muddy road. A green plastic holdall is tipped out – gym kit, Adidas trainers, bodybuilding magazines, CDs, videos, a Japanese computer game and cassette tapes. The glove compartment is swept clean, the boot emptied. Then the boys are shoved up against the car, arms spreadeagled on the bonnet, legs kicked apart, while they are body searched.
The drivers waiting in line are becoming impatient. One or two hanging out, waving and cursing, others sounding their horns. This makes the same difference as before, which is nil. Twenty-one hundred hours is approaching at its own sweet pace, and a few curses and car horns won't make it get here any quicker.
One of the teenagers says something, or is thought to have said something, or perhaps he just happens to have that kind of face. He gets a rifle butt in the kidneys and slumps to his knees, clutching his back. The three soldiers stand in a tight circle around him and his companion, crowding them a little, as if egging them on, as if eager for an opportunity, waiting in hopeful expectancy for a show of retaliation, no matter how feeble. Meanwhile the drizzle comes down, the light fades by the minute, the car horns toot, and Dillon and his lads stamp their feet to keep the circulation going.
Jimmy returns, a sour expression under the streaky brown camouflage cream on his face. 'It's broken down, 'bout five miles back,' he tells Dillon disgustedly. 'We can start on foot, they'll pick us up soon as they got a replacement.'
'Shit!' Dillon shakes his head. 'Okay, right lads, fall in.'
Moaning and cursing, the squad forms two lines and moves out from the guardpost. As they pass the soldiers on duty, a barrage of friendly, filthy insults is exchanged; there isn't much love lost between the regular infantry and the Paras, but they have to keep up the appearance of unity for the sake of the locals.
Bringing up the rear, Jimmy bends down and lets the air out of one of the car's front tyres, gives the two boys a cheery wink, and goes on his way.
CHAPTER 31
Capes glistening, the squad trudges on, rifles at forty-five degrees pointing to the ground, gloved hands curled round the trigger guards, ready for action. The gloves have padded knuckles and fingers, except for the trigger finger, to allow maximum feel and sensitivity. There is dissension in the ranks, grumbles and moans, and Dillon is getting a mite fed-up with it. He bellows over his shoulder:
'It's not my fault the ruddy truck's broken down – we just gotta head back to base, there's no changeover!'
He's ready for a shower and a hot meal as much as any of them, but if they've got to tab another five miles, that's all there is to it. No point the fat knackers grousing.
Peering ahead into the gloom, Dillon raises his hand, makes a gentle up-and-down motion. In taking a corner too fast, a dilapidated old farm truck with a few bales of hay in the back has skidded on the muddy road and got its front offside wheel bogged down in the ditch. A coat held over her head, a woman stands watching two young lads stuffing their sodden jackets under the wheels to provide traction. She gets up into the cab, and with a grinding of gears, revving like crazy, tries to reverse onto the road. The wheels spin, mud flying, and it's clear that if the woman perseveres till Doomsday, she's not going to make it.
Dillon inspects the hedgerows on either side of the lane. He fans his arm, and the squad splits into two.
'Just check it out, lads. If it's okay we can bum a lift back. Jimmy, take the rear.' Dillon waves Harry on. 'Left side… you lads to the front.'
The two young farm boys turn as the squad warily approaches. Hair stuck to their heads like shiny black caps, they stare at the men with flat, expressionless eyes. Dillon walks past them to the cab. He waits for the nod from Harry, gets it, and the thumbs-up from Taffy. All clear. The woman looks down at him. She has long greying hair, darkened to the roots by rainwater, limp strands trailing over the collar of her saturated coat.
'You want a hand, love?' Dillon holds up four fingers, motions four of the Toms to the front of the truck. Two down in the ditch, two on the road, they put their shoulders to it, the woman pressing down hard on the accelerator. The truck shifts a few inches, rolls down again, and with a final heave judders out of the ditch and onto the road, belching blue smoke.
If Dillon is expecting a nod, or even a word of thanks, he is sadly mistaken. The woman jerks her head to the two farm boys, holding their sodden jackets like bundles of wet washing.
'Can you give us a lift, about five miles up the road, love?' Dillon asks, pleasantly enough.
The woman ignores him. 'Get in,' she tells the boys. 'Now!'
'Bitch!' Jimmy says, standing at Dillon's shoulder. And as the two boys move to the cab, gives a muttered, 'Frank, you see their drivin' licence?'
Dillon puts his hand out, restraining one of the boys as he's about to climb aboard. 'Just a second, son, how old are you?'
The boy tenses, looks down at Dillon's gloved hand. For a moment nobody moves, the clinging veil of drizzle shrouding the motionless figures of the two boys and the soldiers in grey murk. Nothing is said, no overt action taken, but a change has taken place. Everyone senses it. The farm boys are edgy, eyes flickering nervously. The Toms have spread themselves out in a circle, weapons raised, training them on the truck. This is bandit country and the enemy is everywhere, and it doesn't pay to forget it, not even for an instant. As NITAT training for a tour of the Province has drummed into them so they can recite it in their sleep: 'Why learn from your own mistakes when you can learn from the mistakes of others?'
Stepping back, Dillon makes a sign. It is a standard drill, and the men perform it as an automatic reflex. It is rapid, short, brutally efficient. Without ceremony the boys are manhandled against the side of the truck, faces bashed into the wooden slats, arms twisted behind their backs, legs kicked apart. Dillon steps back in, grabs a full fistful of hair, yanks the boy's head around.
'Check inside the truck,' he orders Jimmy, and to the boy, whose terrified eyes are rolling in their sockets, showing the whites, 'An' you look at me, look at me\ Name, age, address. Now!'