Contact (4 page)

Jimmy takes over the desk and we are out into the fresher air. Across the Crumlin and through into the Shankill. The comforting weight of the S.L.R. and the steady rhythm of swinging legs. The freedom of feeling the wind against your face after hours of being cooped up in the tense sewer of the O.P. We make our way along the now familiar streets, on up towards the other Fort. On our way, checking a derelict here, a person there; note the cars in the area for any changes; note the comings and goings from the houses of personalities that we are keeping a watch on. All of this is done in the casual way of experience. The street becomes a living animal. We know where to hide. We can feel the varying tensions, the vibrations given off by guilt complexes, the cunning, the hate and the pity. It's a tangible thing. Some days your skin crawls and the whole patrol seems very vulnerable; on other days, like today, we stroll around casually, even exchange pleasantries with the locals.

Most of the houses on the peace line are all gutted. Only the old and the foolish live here. The sectarian violence of the late sixties has left a permanent physical scar across the city, with miles of corrugated tin separating communities who speak the same language, do the same jobs and live in the same square mile of city. We've given up moralising now and just get on with the job.

"Hello 33 Bravo, this is 33 Lima, open back door, over." "33 Bravo, wilco, out."

We approach the Fort via the back entrance, up through an alleyway between the derelicts. Constant and random patrols are vital to ensure that the area is kept clear at all times. The back door is open when we arrive, with one of the toms standing away to one side with S.M.G. at the ready. As soon as he sees who it is he relaxes and we step into the tiny back yard. I check the position of the intruder alarm and we walk through to the house. Hookey's full of good cheer, enjoying the status of 0. P. commander,
and the easy chat flows around
the foetid air of Fort Cross. It is the favourite of the two, primarily because of the tea an
d cakes that are brought in by
two old ladies every night at around eleven. However, with all the friendliness there is still the underlying feeling of distrust and everyone is always on their guard in case some information is let out. This can work to our advantage and if there is anything we think the opposition should know, we let it slip in the conversation.

A short break and we're out through the front entrance for a tour around the graveyard of the Holy Cross church. During an exchange of gunfire one day in the handover week, the priest was seen to be putting pieces of material on the iron railings of the church grounds. We later figured the meaning of the different colours and found a simple code was being used to keep the Ardoyne population informed as to the position of troops on the ground. During that week, two Light Infantry soldiers had been killed and one seriously wounded, all within twenty metres of the church.

We stalk through the graveyard, one moving, the other down and watching. Working in pairs. The buddy system. Headstones stand mocking in silent testimony to our fears. Anywhere else and this would be a place of peace and magic, of beauty and wonder. The tall proud pillars of stone are a landmark, visible from all over the city. To us, another hazard to be negotiated with care. Lying on the damp ground listening to the roar of traffic, the bustle of a big city, watching Pte. Larkin get up and carefully thread his way through the bushes and shrubs nosing the barrel of his S.L.R. before him, head turning from side to side. It all seems so improbable. Knowing there are ten rounds of 7.62 ammunition in my magazine and that the rifle is cocked, brings me back to the reality of the situation.

These clearance patrols are short and we are soon back in the O.P. Later, Hookey will take a patrol out to clear his back area, and still later, one from the base will look in. The Forts are vulnerable and must be watched at all times. In the other Company areas they also have their own positions. In t
he Old
Park district, it is above the old chip shop and so it is called just that. The chip-shop O.P. In the New Ardoyne, there is a junction of roads and this is known as the Rings O.P. Out of all of them, it is the Rings that so far has had the most action with regular short-lived fire-fights with snipers. In one such incident, a young boy was caught in the crossfire and died of his wounds. The press and T.V. had a field day with both the Army and the I. R. A. denying that he was killed by one of their rounds. We came out of it best by virtue of the fact that the boy's uncle, who had been driving the car at the time, had changed his story between the two news programmes on the T. V. that night. It was easy to claim that he had been subjected to intimidation during the time between the two bulletins. Nobody gave a shit about the poor little bastard. Propaganda, that's what it's all about, and we play the game as viciously as everybody else. Human life becomes graded by the ability to be used for maximum publicity. Propaganda and publicity, the weapons of a twentieth-century society.

The most effective
O.P.s
are the covert ones and we're getting pretty good at them. The most difficult to carry out successfully and potentially extremely dangerous, they are, without doubt, also great fun if you discount the discomfort and squalor that have to be put up with in order to gain maximum effect.

Covert
O.P.s
are set up in either occupied or derelict houses overlooking areas of particular importance or just acting on information received. One was carried out by Support Company the other week which resulted in three kills and two seriously wounded gunmen. They had collected
on
a street corner and started handing out weapons prior to an attack on an Army patrol. The O.P. was twenty metres away across the road, and after the initial challenge, opened fire. One man escaped the hail of bullets, the others were not so lucky. Paras 5, I.R.A. 0.

The coverts in our area were centred on the drinking clubs and good old U.D.A. headq
uarters. Days spent peeing into
plastic bags, shitting into same. Eating cold out of tins. Never talking except to pass messages on the radio at the dead of night. Videotape whirring quietly, to be watched later. The personalities logged, cross-checked and filed for later use.

We have a Company within the Battalion, D. Coy, that are supposed to be the specialists at this type of thing. One patrol is attached to each rifle company and are considered cowboys by the lads. On one occasion, the platoon commander on one covert called for assistance in the middle of the night. A Saracen was rushed round with the stand-by section all ready for some action, when they found out that the guy had been crawling round the landing of the derelict they were using, looking for a place to pee, when he fell through some rotten boards and broke his ankle. Needless to say, it took a long time for him to live that one down.

So far this tour we've done more damage to ourselves than the I.R.A. has. The strain of constant tension, restricted movement and exhaustion is beginning to show. Tempers become shorter, sporadic fights break out. Roll on R. and R.

The hours crawl past, dragging up to midnight when I will finally get to sleep. Crashed out on my bunk, not even bothering to take my boots off. Heavy eyelids droop over bloodshot eyes. Have another cigarette. Get up and walk around a bit. Pick up radio and take a trip up to the O.P.s again.

It's a dark night in Belfast. The quiet streets are framed by the slits of the O.P. Surrealistic shadows stretching down pavements, marching past battered doorways, peeking into private misery. What's going on behind the curtained windows? Screwing in number 56? Making bombs in number 57? Planning a raid on a post office in number 58?

On a couple of streets children still play, in the dirt of the gutter. Pushed out by parents screwing in the only bedroom. The lonely cry of a baby. The raised voices of a couple arguing. The drunken singing of a depressed community.

Fuck them all, I'm going to bed!

0700 hrs. June 1973
.

In the talk

Between

Us

There is no

Communication.

THEY'VE BEEN BULLSHITTI
NG us again with crap about how
we're winning the war. The new C.O. is running around like a chicken with his head cut off, and I'm standing here on the street doing the interminable census.

"Get to know your local community." Bullshit.

Hearts and minds, comes the never-ending cry from the politicians. Get a fucking rifle in your hand and get out here, comes the never-ending reply from the toms on the streets. The Battalion before us did the same thing, as the one before them, as the one before them, etc., etc. Where does all this information go to? Or is it just stored to keep a tally on how great a work rate each Battalion achieves?

"Make friends with your local U.V.F. gunman. " Well why not, at least then we'll know what the hell he's up to.

The Shankill. Big, sprawling, vicious. A high percentage of unemployment and crime. The whole area being under the un
official protection of the U.D.
A. and run by gangsters. A community just as suppressed by fear as the Catholics in the Ardoyne. The methods used to control them just the same as the I.R.A. use. Kneecappings, beatings and in some instances, torture and death.

Census patrols. The chance for tea and biscuits if you get to the right part of the area; and for some the chance of a quick screw with some randy Irish housewife kinky for a bit of Para dick complete with flak jacket
and boots on. Me? I never touch '
em mate!

Random musings on a street corner whilst waiting for Paul to finish chatting to the reticent woman in number 13. We take it in turns to chat at the doorstep, otherwise the constant repetition of questions can drive you just a little crazy.

"Excuse me, madam, would you mind answering a few questions. We are taking a census and want to check the names of everyone in the house."

"Youse always round, youse fucking Army bastards." Just another way of saying "Well, we have been done before you know." It doesn't matter what you think about it, lady, you're going to answer the questions anyway.

In one house, a timid woman with a couple of snotty-nosed brats cries silently into a handkerchief. Her husband is serving time in Long Kesh for arms offences. You would feel pity if there wasn't a doubt about her tears and innocence. Under the cushions on the settee, filthy nappies linger still with the shit in them and the whole house reeks of stale piss. She's talking about nothing in particular, just on and on in an endless stream of self-pity. We sit and listen politely, waiting for a suitable opportunity to escape. Hearts and minds. Be nice, encourage the talk, something might slip out. The tea served out of dirty, cracked mugs tastes like dishwater and there have been instances of ground glass being mixed with the sugar. What a place this is.

I was really quite a nice guy before I came out here. Now the frustrations are building and the inner violence seethes below the surface waiting for an opportunity to escape. Looking at this pathetic woman, I'm not thinking about the broken home or the deprived background. I'm thinking "I wonder what she's like between the sheets?" Swear at me, lady, and I'll crack you so hard your teeth will fall out.

What's happened to me? . . . Belfast, that's what.

The city breathes its own cancer and we are right in the middle of it all. Build an outer casing around your emotions, enjoy the sense of power, revel in the excitement of the chase, the aggro., the gun battles. Enjoy it. Enjoy it.

Paul collects Harvey and we continue the route. Harvey is becoming a personality now and we all play the game, talking to him, covering him across the streets, a gap even opens in the middle of the patrol. Paul introduces him at every doorway. The locals are too bemused to say a thing. The Shankill Road, wide, bustling with life and energy, the heartland of the U.D.A. and U.V.F., Tartan gangs and other fringe groups. Lined with shops, bars, gutted buildings, concrete-filled barrels on the edge of the road to stop car bombs being parked outside pubs and clubs. Listless stares from the vacant faces of the unemployed standing around waiting, always waiting.

Memories of standing here during the Orange Day marches, cut off from the other members of the patrol, feeling vulnerable and scared. Thousands lining the street cheering, drinking, singing, not worrying about me at that moment.

Now it's an ordinary day. A weak sun is throwing grey shadows across the tarmac, fleeting glimpses of pinched faces in passing cars, images of the High Street at home on any day, housewives shopping, babies in prams, teenagers in calf-length bell-bottomed jeans and boots kicking cans along the pavement. Buses disgorging passengers, taxis full to overflowing, meandering with the daily traffic of businessmen, salesmen and what else? The grating sound of ghetto Irish slicing through the hubbub and digging deep into my mind.

The patrol weaving in and around the shoppers, part of the scene and yet separate. An essential part of the character of the place and yet an unwelcome intrusion. We forget that the first shots fired at the Army came from so-called "Loyalist" guns, and that the first Army casualties were inflicted by the people calling themselves part of England. It's all a question of whatever suits at the time.

We've been long enough on the main drag now and we slip through a maze of alleyways to another aspect of the locality. Still the same housing but the essence of the character of the Shankill heightened by these clusters of streets. Good neighbourliness is not apparent here at all. Confidential whispers from spiteful women about
the goings on at the end of the
row.

"That Michael Hare is a real bad one. He's the man around here.
"

"The man" is usually a weedy little runt who makes a habit of beating his wife regularly. Not that that has much bearing on the matter, but he may well have sworn at the woman now confiding. Telephone calls have been made to the robot phone for no other reason than the caller wants to see the person turned over by a house search at two o'clock in the morning.

Knock on the door. Answered by a prematurely old woman. Go through the usual questions and get invited in.

"Cup of tea?"

"Yes please."

"Oh, it's nice to see the Paras back again. Give the boyos hell." Nod in agreement.

"Of course, you won't have any trouble here. Not in the Shankill. We all support the Army, you know."

"Well, that's nice to know." Lying.

"Oh yes, my father was in the Army during the war. Fought for England."

"Really?" Not believing a word. Not caring. We've heard it all before. 1 Para had one of its biggest contacts in Belfast right here in this street when two Landrovers were ambushed. They were lucky to get out of it.

"Of course, there are some bad people around but they don't come from here."

Not true. I wonder if she really believes all that she is saying, or whether the boyos have such a hold that anyone will say anything just for a quiet life. Well, you couldn't blame them. We know that this woman has a retarded son. In fact, the district has a special bus that picks up the mentally deficient in the area and takes them off to a special school.

Poor little buggers. Not knowing what it's all about. Smiling empty smiles. Confused minds trying to separate people and to understand right and wrong. The lads take the piss unmercifully with comments like:

"Hello madam, who's your monkey?"

Anything to spark a reaction. Anything to hurt, to scar for the crime of being a part of this community. Nobody is innocent in our eyes. We must have our revenge.

Hearts and minds. It's difficult to do. Switch off the feeling, and smile, keep smiling. Smile at the abuse. Smile at the hate. Smile. Smile. Smile.

"You boys here for much longer? Had your R. and R?"

Here it comes, the gentle probing for information and yet there is no need as they probably know more than we do anyway. There is no such thing as a secure telephone in Belfast so the questions are only a preliminary to the revelation that a particular Battalion is going to take over when we leave and on a particular day. At first it was unnerving but now we just smile and say "Really, they don't tell us anything you know." Not that they're fooled for an instant, but it's all part of the game.

"Where do you come from son, I've g
ot a sister lives in Liverpool.
"

Now that really is a surprise. The only city in England that has the majority of ferry traffic. Day trip and stayed forever. Nod in assent and make noises of encouragement. Have another biscuit, slurp down the tea, check my watch, nod to Paul and leave.

Another house, another face and a different reaction. The same look, the same sound, a different approach. Images of living on the bread-line. Threadbare carpets, tattered clothes, whining children, cans of beans and piles of washing left for weeks. Rusting scrap in the small back yards, overflowing toilets, grimy curtains on opaque windows. Their lives lurching from incident to incident, feeding on the scraps of hope scattered by politicians eager for power. The men in suits and ties making a living from the misery of others. Using them to feature in the news. We are all victims. Every last one of us in the city of destruction.

The toms are yawning on the pavements and in the bushes. Hours of census-taking, sapp
ing the interest and destroying
the concentration. Time for a change. Call for a Saracen on the radio. Drive to a different part and out patrolling again.

The temptation is to cut short the patrol, or to move nearer to base so that you're in the moment your time is up. It becomes a monotony of clock-watching. If I had wanted to knock on doors for a living, I would have been a salesman.

Lunch at Leopold Street for the first time in weeks. A brief respite before putting in a court appearance in the afternoon. Earlier in the tour, one of my men had been hit by a drunken driver whilst on a routine V.C.P. on the Old Park Road and Crumlin Road junction. It was late on a wet night when the car came hurtling down the road, scattering soldiers and burying itself in the side of the Saracen. One of the toms was hit by the car, carried twenty metres down the road and thrown onto the Saracen, tossed over it and landed a further thirty metres down the road. At first we thought he must be dead, and the driver of the vehicle too, but him we didn't care about. As it was, the driver of the car was just dazed. He was quickly removed from the car, bundled into the back of the Saracen and taken care of. Women were screaming in the street, toms were threatening to shoot everything in sight. Turmoil in a few short moments.

The outcome was the end of the Army career of the soldier who survived but had a badly broken leg and multiple injuries. The court case was to send the driver away for dangerous driving, drunken driving and the rest. The case was going to be interesting because there had been counter-allegations by the car driver of brutality and assault. Whether he suffered his broken jaw and nose plus other minor injuries in the crash or afterwards seemed to be a matter of conjecture. The truth is buried in the haze of forgetfulness that surrounds most incidents in the city.

The Crumlin Road courthouse is opposite the main prison and on the edge of our area. Many soldiers know the inside only too well. We must be the only Army in the world that has to account for every minute of time, every action taken.