After the guys had sorted themselves out and got their eyes in, everyone would have a brew from the urn by the target shed. Then the instructor would move on to drawing from holsters. He’d line up the lads in front of the targets and call, ‘UP!’ Everyone would draw, fire a quick double-tap, then re-holster the pistol. Then we’d turn through ninety degrees to the right or left, and at the second command we’d draw, swivel and fire. Next we’d turn the other way, shoot from that position, and finally face backwards, so that we had to spin through 180 degrees.
Then we’d do some walking practice — maybe four of us at a time. The aim was to get everybody nice and confident, walking with their hands at their sides, in a relaxed attitude. Then at the command ‘UP!’ we’d stop, draw, whip round and fire, all in a split second. If the targets were numbered, and we were walking in pairs, the instructor might yell ‘ONE AND FOUR!’ whereupon we’d have to engage those two targets. When each practice finished, the instructor would say, ‘OK, guys, paste up,’ and we’d go forward to stick coloured patches over the bullet holes.
At some stage, as we were firing, he’d yell ‘Stoppage!’ and we’d go down on one knee, hitting the release button of the magazine as we went; we’d whip the magazine out, slot another in, and be firing again as we came back up. In a contact, our lives might depend on the speed with which we reacted, and I practised until I could do the change in less than three seconds.
Speed and accuracy were everything. With the Hun’s Head targets — the silhouette of a German soldier’s head and trunk — it was always the head we aimed at, and up to twenty paces I reckoned I could put a double-tap straight through the middle of the forehead ten times out of ten. With the bigger Figure 11 targets we stuck on small white patches to give us precise aiming marks.
I found it odd that the lads who weren’t actually firing would show little interest in what was going on. They’d sit on the bench outside the hut, chit-chatting away — the young ones would be on about the old trout they’d been humping the night before, the older guys about the extensions they were putting on their houses. As for me, I couldn’t get enough of it. I had grown fanatically determined that if ever my chance came across the water, I wasn’t going to flunk it. I’m sure some of the guys thought I was becoming obsessive, and I suppose I was — but only for a reason about which I couldn’t enlighten them.
All our training emphasized the need for restraint and split-second timing. Many times in the past (we heard), our predecessors had had to wait until players were actually levelling weapons in front of them before they themselves could fire; if they’d shot sooner, before they were under immediate threat, they could have ended up in court charged with murder. It seemed ridiculous that the dice should be so heavily loaded in the terrorists’ favour — yet that was the way things stood.
I recalled part of old Morrison’s tirade, in which he had lambasted the excessive restraints under which the security forces had to work: ‘When we’ve brought a murderer into the station,’ he’d said, ‘if I so much as cuff him on the ear, that’ll guarantee to put me in court. If I kick the chair from under him, that’s an assault. Even if I lean over the table to emphasize a point, that’s threatening him, and the interview’s stopped because it’s being monitored by the chief inspector sitting in the back.’
In some irrational way, I felt that the normal restrictions did not apply to me. Gary Player had already committed murder, and that was sufficient justification for my taking him out, never mind any further crimes he might commit. At the back of my mind I realized that in planning a personal vendetta I was stepping out of line. The essence of any SAS operation is teamwork, and here I was, trying to crack something on my own.
Working solo, without mates to cover my movements, would expose me to a far greater risk of getting shot or captured. Normally, working in pairs, you cover each other, and you can shoot your way out of trouble. Alone, without a partner, I could easily end up in the shit. I never really faced up to the thought of what might happen if I was captured. Very few of the guys ever did. Deep down, they knew perfectly well that if the IRA got them, they would be whipped south of the border and would probably never see the light of day again. They would die — but not before they had suffered unspeakable tortures. For this reason, some of them privately admitted that if things looked really bad they’d shoot themselves; but most preferred to believe they would come out fighting. I was one of that majority.
Apart from survival, there was also the little matter of identifying my victim. How in hell was I to find out who he was? And even if I did discover his name, how was I to track him down? Such was the force of my anger that I had no doubt I would find him somehow.
One morning a couple of weeks before the end of the course, I was due to have my arm checked by a specialist in the tri-service hospital at Wroughton. By then I was so hyped up that the thought of losing half a day’s training quite pissed me off — but I scented possible compensation in the fact that Tracy might be on duty when I clocked in at the camp Med Centre to pick up my X-rays.
She was. When I appeared, she was on the phone, but before I’d taken two steps into the room she banged down the receiver with a loud cry of ‘SHIT!’
‘Something the matter?’
‘It’s our effing landlord. He’s throwing us out.’
‘That’s tough. What happened?’
She told me she’d been living with a friend, Susan, in a flat on the outskirts of town. They had no proper security of tenure, and now the owner of the house was going abroad and wanted to let the whole place as a single unit. He had given the girls a fortnight to pack their bags.
Listening to Tracy talk, watching her, I thought she had changed. Her face was lit up with indignation, but she seemed more mature, less wild and tarty than I remembered her. Maybe I was influenced by the fact that she’d been very sweet about Kath the first time I’d seen her after the disaster. In any case, I now felt sorry for her.
Even so, it wasn’t until I was in the minibus, half-way to Wroughton, that the idea hit me. For some time I’d been worrying what would happen to Keeper’s Cottage when I went to Belfast. Tony was about to go off on the jungle phase of his selection course; in any case, he wouldn’t want to live out in the country on his own while I was away. I could simply lock the door and go, but I didn’t want the place to stand empty for months on end.
So why not offer the house to Tracy and Susan? I didn’t know whether or not Susan had a car, but Tracy certainly had one, and could easily commute in and out. As long as being out in the wilds didn’t spook them, they could live in the cottage rent-free, look after things till I got back, and give themselves time to find permanent accommodation elsewhere.
At Wroughton there was the usual delay. A backlog of patients had built up, and I was told I’d have to wait half an hour; so I went down the corridor to the payphone and called the Med Centre’s reception.
‘Hi,’ I began. ‘It’s me, Geordie.’
‘What’s happened now? Left your head behind?’
‘Listen — I’ve had an idea about a place for you and Susan. You can have my house. It’s going to be empty from the end of the month, for the best part of a year.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Off the Madley road, about four miles out.’