I looked down at the assault equipment laid out neatly on my bed. After weeks of routine patrols, the leash had finally been loosened: we had been put on standby for a possible house assault in the Andersonstown area of the city. A tout had informed the green slime that four armed PIRA had taken over the top flat of a block of flats and were preparing to carry out a snipe on an Army foot patrol.
I picked up the 9mm Browning on the bedside locker, removed the magazine and, gripping the knurled slide with index finger and thumb, cocked the action. The oiled working parts slipped back smoothly, revealing the empty chamber. Satisfied with the weapon’s safety precautions, I released the slide, allowing it to snap forward, replaced the fully loaded mag and secured the pistol in the holster on the belt kit. I was just reaching for my personal radio, hanging by its harness on the wardrobe door, when the outside door of the basha flew open.
‘Get tooled-up lads, we’re going for it!’ The urgency in the team leader’s voice cracked through the steadiness of our methodical preparations and whipped us into a frenzy of action. We had moved from standby to immediate. We staggered into our body armour, threw on our assault kit, loaded and cocked our weapons, and double-checked our gas-masks for serviceability.
I was lost in a sea of struggling, cursing assaulters as we made for the two armoured pigs that would transport us to Andy’s Town. I scrambled into the first pig. Jake, Ginge and Bob were already seated in the cramped interior. Jake, hard and intense, a Jock from the Highland Light Infantry and second-in-command of the assault team, was straightening the splayed ends of the safety-pin protruding from his stun grenade to facilitate quicker withdrawal. The other lads were checking their Heckler & Koch MP5s and adjusting their gas-masks. I took a handful of cartridges from the map pocket of my combat trousers and began feeding the Remington. The pigs lurched forward out through the main gates of the RUC station and into the Springfield Road.
The two pigs turned into the Falls, trundling along at normal patrol speed, heading for Andy’s Town. Then we took a right, up Kennedy Way, getting close. Each man was tense, not talking, going over the assault plan in his mind. No orders would be shouted. The drill was automatic. Nothing could stop the ball once it had started rolling. Right turn into Andy’s Town, the high whine of the pig’s engine in our ears.
‘Two hundred metres,’ came the terse message from the front. ‘One hundred metres.’ I could feel the adrenaline start to pump. ‘Fifty metres.’ The man nearest the back twisted one of the rear door handles and disengaged the securing rod. Gripping tightly onto both door handles he pushed the doors slightly outwards to check that they were moving freely, then swung them closed again. His fingers stayed clenched around the handles, ready for instant action.
The pig jerked to a halt. ‘Go, go, go,’ was the only shouted order. The rear doors burst open. I counted them out. One out. Two out. I was three out. Four out. I looked up. We were hemmed in on two sides by the pre-cast concrete frontages of two bleak rows of flats, whose dirty and neglected windows looked all the more bizarre and hostile for having their frames painted bright garish colours, totally out of keeping with the dismal greyness of the rest of the scene. A muddy grass verge littered with broken bottles, pieces of masonry and dog shit led up to each row of flats, like a rubbish-strewn sea lapping at a harbour wall. The two blocks were connected by a low-sided, open concrete walkway to our front, blackened by the weather and disfigured by graffiti – an ideal position from which an old car engine could be levered over the low walls onto a passing Army patrol. Two ten-year-olds standing at one end eyed us with hate and disgust. They dashed to alert the occupants of the flats that the SF had arrived.
Running hard, we slithered over the grass and headed for the block of flats on the left, gas-masks restricting breathing, eyepieces beginning to mist over. We crashed through the front door. All I could see was the heaving back of number two as we mounted the stairs. The bare concrete steps were in flights of eight, zigzagging up the central stairwell in alternating directions and connected by small, rough-surfaced landings. Our momentum was halted momentarily at each landing as we lurched around in an acute reversal of direction, wrenching at the rusty handrail to aid our progress upwards. First floor, second floor. No problems. So far so good. I could feel the urgent presence of number four pushing behind me as we approached the target flat on the third floor.
The safety-catch on the Remington came off as I hit the third floor and made for the target door. Number one and number two were already in position at the hinges, waiting for the door to swing open. I squeezed the trigger on the shotgun. The shot hammered through the Yale lock, splintering the wood surround into a thousand slivers. A heavy size-nine boot finished the job and the door crashed open. Number one and number two disappeared inside.
I took up a crouched position just inside the door, ready for the shooting to start. Shouts and screams reverberated around the interior of the flat. A stun grenade went off, the force of the detonation cracking the cheap plaster on the ceiling and walls. I waited for the last blinding flash, then moved deeper into the room. Through the fog I could see shadowy figures. A man and a woman sat doubled on the settee, coughing, vomiting and babbling incoherently.
A gas-mask came towards me, a gloved hand gripped my arm. ‘The bastards aren’t here.’ His voice sounded strangely distorted through the mask. ‘We’re going for the flat across the landing.’ With that he darted past me and rocketed towards the other door, his number two hard on his heels.
I followed fast, the Remington coming up to the aiming position. In a blur of movement the shot hammered the Yale and the door splintered and sprang open. In one fast and practised movement, the two assaulters cannoned into the flat.
I stood near the doorway, covering the entrance to the living room. A bedlam of sound pounded my ears: hysterical voices… Irish accents… the deafening explosions of the stun grenades… but still no gunfire. The bastards have got to be in there this time. For fuck’s sake pull the trigger and let’s get the job over with.
The earpiece of my Pyephone radio crackled into life. ‘All stations. This is Jake. The birds have flown. Endex. Lift off.’
Bastard, I thought, all this pissing about for nothing! The sharp acid of frustration started to well up and corrode my insides. My skull seemed to grow tighter and press in on my brain. The fucking tout had got it wrong. How much was the green slime paying him anyway?
I couldn’t stand much more of this, I had to get out of this place.
Then the frustration of not being able to take out the enemy exploded into a scandal that rocked B Squadron and brought to an end the Regiment’s mission to support the fledgling 14 Intelligence Company known as the ‘The Det’.
The first incident occurred when four members of B Squadron had gone into a well-known Republican bar in Londonderry for a drink and a quick look around. When they were there they recognized a senior IRA player from source photographs. This made him a legitimate target for an official operation. Trouble was this was not an officially planned lift. This was a spur of the moment recce. Tension about the whole Northern Ireland situation was running sky-high and this was no ordinary IRA player but a known IRA killer – drinking in broad daylight!
Inflamed by their frustration at constantly having their hands tied thanks to bureaucracy and politics, they allowed their impatience to get the better of them. Seizing the opportunity they pistol-whipped him in the car park in an attempt to subdue him so they could get him in the car and drop him off at the nearest SF base for interrogation. But just at that moment all the Republican drinkers happened to stream out of the bar. In the face of a large, hostile crowd the B Squadron men jumped into their car and only just managed to escape before they were surrounded by the mob.