Another Day in Purgatory.

By Bob French

I skipped breakfast, knowing that it would be the usual eggs, bacon, sausage and baked beans, in favour of a strong cup of sweet black coffee, then sauntered over to Herby, a battered old Humber Pig, an armoured personnel carrier, that had saved our skins on numerous occasions during the past four months, to inspect the petrol bomb damage she had sustained two nights ago. 

          As I surveyed the scared and bubbled paintwork under the ark light, Driver Alexander, ‘Spud’ to the rest of the platoon, and my vehicle engineer, stuck his head out of the side hatch.

          “Much damage Spud?”

          “Nothing a spot of paint won’t fix Boss.  Problem is we only got yellow and red paint.”

          I nodded and made a mental note to speak to the battalion Quartermaster, turned, and bumped into Gus Harrison, my platoon sergeant.

           “Got a problem?”

          “Not really Boss.  Just wanted to ask if we should take young Ashford on the raid.  As you know he’s only been with us for three weeks and hasn’t stepped outside the compound yet?”

          I quickly brought the image of the young blond haired nineteen year old from Cornwall to the front of my mind.

          “Have you had a word with Corporal Smith whose been putting him through his paces?”

          “Yeh, he’s fit enough but as for holding it together when it gets serious, Smiddy and I are not sure.”

          I pondered for a second.

          “Corporal Smith is with the decoy team, so get him to take Ashford along; give some a little slack, but tell Smith to keep an eye on him. He’s got to learn someday.”

          As I moved towards the briefing room I noticed that shadows were starting to form as the sky was just starting to take on the tinge of dawn; another fine day in this God-forsaken war torn province where religious hatred going back hundreds of years and now seem to be a way of life for everyone.

          From the darkness off to my right ‘Spooks’ or Staff Sergeant Eddie McAlister of the Intelligence Corps suddenly appeared; a steady hand and a veteran of the troubles of Belfast.

          “Morning Eddie. Everything ready?”  It was a question I knew the answer to before I had asked it.  His nod confirmed my concern. 

          As I struggled to take one last drag of the damp stubby I subconsciously looked up at the wet corrugated high tin walls and the wire mesh that was the roof over our compound.  This small fortress off Gibson Street, behind the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast had been home for the twenty-five men in my platoon for the past four months.  It was our last week of the tour and I had this nagging feeling that something was going to go wrong today.

          The briefing room was already full of cigarette smoke and men as ‘Spooks’ and I entered, bringing the jibes and friendly banter to an instant silence.

          “Morning lads.  Right, let’s make this quick. Our task this morning is to assist the Green Tops, The Royal Ulster Constabulary, in making an arrest of a known bomb maker on the corner of Springfield Road and Cupper Street off the Falls Road.“

          My intro was interrupted by the groans from the platoon and I casually waved them to silence.  “We all know that this is a bad area to operate in, so eyes all round OK.”  I let the chatter die down.

          “Now we have done this sort of thing dozens of times with the Green Tops, but let’s not get complacent.  Remember those three poor sods from B Company last week that had to be medevacked back to Woolwich minus some of their arms and legs having been caught in a booby-trapped pit of a so called ‘clean house.”  Instantly I recalled my sergeant’s words to me on my very first tour in the province; a lifetime ago; “Trust no bugger.”

          I then turned to Spooks who was pinning a large street map of north Belfast onto the notice board. His crisp cockney accent bringing silence to the room.

          “Right lads, listen up. Corporal Jenkins and four men will deploy in a Land Rover to Hammond Street, here, as his finger taps a place a few streets away from a map pin that indicated the target house, at 05:25 hours, where you will report to Sergeant Flynn of 35 Det of the Green Tops.  Many of you’ll know of Flynn’s reputation, so keep out of his way.  This is a decoy mission so listen to what he wants you to do.”  A murmur went around about mad man Flynn.

          “Sergeant Harrison will take Herby and six men and report to Inspector Liam O’Connor and his team at the corner of Wentworth Street, here at 05:25 hours.”

          His finger tapped a junction very close to the map pin; nobody commented. It was getting serious.

          “The target house is situated here at the junction of Springfield Road and Cupper Street.  This is a known IRA area so bloody well be sharp.  You know what will happen if you are late?”  Laughter ran through the room as they recalled what had happened to a young Grenadier Guards Lieutenant who had rolled up ten minutes late for a hit and had to be Medevac back to Woolwich with a broken nose.      “Remember the moral of the story…”  And everyone recited back to Spooks.  “Don’t be late.”

          “Lastly, Boss, Evans, Jones and George will cover the rear of the target house.”  I smiled as I knew I was in good hands. The battalion rugby team’s front row; animals to a man. 

          “Your task is to apprehend anyone who flees the target house.  Remember, no one gets away got it?”  His threat was aimed at everyone in the room.

          As the men of my platoon started to get dressed into their equipment, Spooks quietly came up on my side.

          “Boss, I have just been informed that F Troop may be on the ground.  It appears they also have a target of interest.”  I nodded slowly. That’s the last thing I needed, I thought, was to have the boys from Hereford wandering around the area.

          “If you’re challenged, your password is ‘Wembley’ and his should be Clacton’ got it?” 

          It was still dark when I drove Evans, Jones and George through the back streets off the Falls Road.  As I drove under the railway bridge I thought I saw someone quickly step back into the shadows of a door-way and cursed. It would take just one phone call and the whole show could turn to rat shit. 

          Once I had found the empty garage that Spooks and told me about and hid the land rover, we quietly started to make our way through the narrow alleyways and paths of Belfast towards the laying up position, some fifty yards behind the target house, using the dim light of dawn to move whenever possible, and waited.

          The fine rain had increased and the wind had picked up as daylight gradually increased and I felt my body crave for a cigarette but knew it would be a dead giveaway.  No Irishman in his right mind would stand in the wind and rain smoking a cigarette. 

          Time seemed to drag until 05:30 hours, when I heard the commotion over at Hammond Street.  Seconds later there came a splintering crash and Inspector O’Connor’s bellowing voice cutting through the silence of the dawn as he forced himself and his team through the remains of the front door and up the stairs of the target house.

          Lights instantly came on in nearby houses; curtains were edged back and people in dressing gowns started to come out into the street to see what all the noise was about. Angry voices were starting to be raised and I knew that this was always the worst time and thought of Private Ashford and how he was copping.  Anything could happen and I hopped that Sergeant Harrison and the boys could handle it.

          We held our position for about five minutes when suddenly Jones saw a figure sprinting down one of the narrow back paths and without warning, jumped up and sprinted after him.  I suddenly felt sorry for whoever that man was once Jones had got hold of him.  As Evans chuckled, having read my thoughts.

          George put his finger to his lips, silencing the huge Welshman.  Then it happened.  A tall thick-set man came sprinting around the corner.  George simply stood, took three quick steps toward him and hit him with a rugby tackle right in his stomach.  The man went down like a rag doll and before he knew what was happening, George had rolled him over and handcuffed and hooded him.

          After a while the man seemed to recover and began to struggle and threaten George.  Even I knew you had to be mentally disturbed to give Mark George any lip, but to my surprise, George had knelt down beside the man and spoke quietly into his ear.  After that, the man was as good as gold.

          “Ay Mark, you should have been one of those councillors who elps people with their anger management.”  George grunted.  Not impress with Evan’s observation.

          My team and I were to remain in position until 05:40 hours, then quietly withdraw with anyone we had taken.  It was then that Jones came back through a narrow passage from behind us with the man he’d chased in tow, handcuffed and breathing heavily. There was blood all over his face.

          Mark George looked up and grinned.  “Fall over did he Jonesy?” Which brought a chuckle from us all.

          “Time to withdraw lads. Make sure our two guests are prepared to come with us without making any noise.” As we started out back towards the garage a man dressed in jeans and an old black overcoat suddenly appeared from one of the dark alleyways off to our right and stood in my path and spoke with a strong Geordie accent.

          “Sorry Boss. But I’ve got to take this one off your hands.”  He nodded toward the tall lean man that George had felled and nodded.  Although I was prepared, this man’s sudden appearance put the fear of God into me.

          I frantically tried to remember the passwords.  What was going through my mind was the response Spooks had told me, ‘if you give him the wrong password, you’ll probably be taken out by a sniper who will be watching over the repossession.

          “Wembley.”

          The man smiled and quietly said ‘Clacton.’

          I turned to Mark George and nodded. “Hand him over George and be quick about it, I want to be out of here asap.  I will explain everything later.”

          George pushed the tall lean man towards our intruder who grinned, whipped off the hood and spun him around and cut his plastic bonds.

          “You alright, Dave.  Think you got away with it?” The tall man nodded, turned to me and George and winked.  Then they were gone, faded into the shadows where they lived and worked.

          That night in the platoon bar I explained to George, Jones and Evans who the stranger who had spirited away the man George had felled was.

          “He was from F Troop of the SAS, probably working as a mole inside the IRA. 

          As young Ashford started singing at the top of his drunken voice I grinned at Corporal Smith; another war hero. We had three days to go, then back to England and a well-deserved rest; till the next time.

 

Copyright Bob French