‘There’s another thing as well now: they’re into drugs. I know this won’t really concern yous guys — it’s the business of other agencies — but you’d better be aware of it. The PIRA always needs money, for weapons and explosives and whatever, and, as you know, there’s tremendous money in drugs. So they’re into narcotics too, bringing in drugs from the south, and distributing them on.’
The chief paused, looking round at all of us, and then said by way of summing up: ‘Oh yes, they’re the most cunning bastards on earth. They’re good bastards in their way and, flip, you underestimate those feckers at your peril.’
He stopped, and everyone sat silent. Then a voice from the floor asked, ‘Do you hate them?’
‘Hate them?’ The speaker seemed to reflect for a moment, then his voice grew suddenly louder. ‘Yes, I truly hate them, the murdering, treacherous, lying bastards. I’ve seen one of my young officers cut down by them in the prime of his life. I’ve heard his little boy asking when his daddy’s coming home, and somebody telling him his daddy won’t be getting up anymore, because he’s there in his coffin. When that happens to a family, it’s terrible, and you don’t ever forget it.’
The speaker was staying that night in the officers’ mess in camp, and after the talk he was invited there for a drink. We drove back to Hereford, showered, changed, and piled into the mess for a couple of beers and some polite conversation. With no particular motive — merely to socialize — I asked the chief if by any chance he’d met my father-in-law, who was quite well-known as a GP around his area of East Belfast. It turned out that the two hadn’t come across each other, and there was no connection; but in the long-term that chance contact was to have far-reaching effects.
The brief on Northern Ireland had brought the course into sharp focus, and when we began doing car-drills for VCPs and ambushes, the guys went into everything with new fervour. Reg Brown, our new instructor (himself from the Regiment), drummed into us the fact that when we drove towards a normal VCP, dressed in civilian clothes and in a civilian car, the green soldiers manning the barrier would naturally take us for Irishmen. It was therefore necessary to have all weapons stowed well out of sight, and to let the guys know covertly that we were from the security forces. The way to do this was to keep our ID cards inside our Northern Ireland driving licences, so that when a driver showed his licence the guard would open it up and see the card. Then, if he was properly trained, he would chat for a minute, say, ‘Fine,’ and hand the licence back, and we’d be smoothly on our way. Anyone watching would take us for normal punters.
That was the drill for a normal VCP. But it was also likely, Reg told us, that we would come across illegal check-points, set up by the players in Catholic areas as shows of strength, to demonstrate to the locals that they were in charge. ‘If you see it early enough,’ he told us, ‘spin out and disappear. If you’re already into it, keep calm, drive on, but slow down as if you’re going to stop. Stay in low gear, and make sure your pistol’s to hand in the right-hand door-well. As the guy comes towards you, to ask who you are, wind the window down, grab the pistol and whack him. Then, if there’s no barrier ahead, accelerate hard and use the car as a weapon to hit any other players who may be on the road.
‘If the road’s blocked, start off the same. The driver drops the first guy, but at the same time the passenger starts putting down a massive amount of fire on his side. The two guys in the back debus, go wide, and put down more fire. The front two jump out, move back through the others, and put down rounds themselves. All four of you pepperpot back into a line, and then assess the situation. If you’ve taken out two or three of the players, and there are only four or five altogether, the commander may take the decision to move forward and finish them off. Also, of course, you’ve got your radios, and by now you will have called for assistance…’
Much of our training took place in Prescott’s Wood, where everything was pretty realistic. We built OPs by digging in, carefully disposing of the soil, and meticulously roofing the hides with branches, turf, dead grass and leaves so that no sign of disturbance was visible. From those vantage points we had to keep watch on spots like culverts, in which (according to one scenario) a bomb had been hidden, and report any activity that had taken place in the area. We also had to fight our way out of ambushes laid on by guys from the Regiment, who would open the proceedings by throwing a petrol bomb into the road in front of our car.
Often we were out in the countryside, away from LATA altogether. Many of the farmers round Hereford were really on side, and were glad to let us use their land and buildings. Once an arrangement was in place, someone would tell them that if they saw movement round an outlying barn, or in one of their hedges, on a particular day, not to worry; they were to carry on with their normal activities. Our scenario would lay down that some players were using the barn as a transit hide; we’d build an OP in a spot overlooking it, and go to ground there, watching for business to develop. Since much of the land was similar to the ground in Northern Ireland — undulating fields divided by thick hedges — it was ideal for training.
On top of all this there was a good deal of physical activity. The guys went for their normal daily runs or sessions in the gym, and twice a week an instructor from the Bodyguard Wing took us for unarmed combat. Although quite a small guy, he had a reputation for being able to deck even the biggest lads, and he taught us the holds for disabling people or taking them out. ‘It’s easy enough to kill someone,’ he said cheerily. ‘All you need do is use your hand to push their nose-bone up into their brain. Or you can rip their wind-pipe out. But the best thing in a life-threatening situation is just to break the neck.’ He instructed us to take each other on and learn the moves in slow time, encouraging us to fight dirty by gouging eyes, going for the crotch and so on.
All in all, the course was pretty demanding, but good fun. I felt I was putting a lot into it, but also getting a lot out of it, learning all the time.
Then one morning everything went to rat-shit. We were firing pistols at about ten o’clock when a call came through to the range house, and someone shouted, ‘Geordie, you’re wanted on the phone.’ Puzzled, I went in and picked up the receiver. There on the line was the adjutant’s clerk, calling from camp.
‘Is that Geordie Sharp?’
‘Yep.’
‘There’s a bit of an emergency. The adjutant needs to see you urgently.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. That’s the only message: you’ve got to get right back.’
Christ! I thought, now what have I done? I must be in for a fearsome bollocking.
I looked round for someone to take charge of my weapons, and the nearest guy was Pat Martin. ‘Hey, Pat, I’ve got to head back to the Lines. Will you make sure my weapons and kit-bag go back in the locker?’
‘No problem,’ he answered. ‘What’s the matter? Have you dropped a bollock?’
‘Not that I know of.’ I shrugged and I handed him my pistol, told him my HK 53 was in the hut, and said I’d take the grey admin Sierra.
I drove fast, unable to think of anything I’d done wrong. In a few minutes I was back at camp, parked up and hurrying to the adjutant’s office. When I saw the SSM standing in the room, by the Rupert’s desk, and also John Stone, who’d been best man at my wedding, I knew something was very wrong.
The adjutant stood up awkwardly as I came in: another sign of big trouble. In that warm weather he was wearing his DPMs, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up.
‘Sit down, Geordie,’ he said, waving at a chair, and then: ‘Listen, I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you. Your wife’s been killed.’