Contact (11 page)

The firing dies away and the silence stretches on as if nothing had happened. It's weird and a little spooky. Nothing has changed, the trees are still there, the clouds are drifting by and the sun is still shining. If it w
asn't for the radio traffic and
the now dispersing black smoke, there would be no reason to think that this wasn't an ordinary day. What am I saying? It is an ordinary day in this part of the world!

The only car on the road is a Cortina heading at a leisurely pace down towards us, stopping dutifully when signalled.

"All right, out of the car, hands i
n the air and you too, darling.
"

"Now open the boot and bonnet, slowly."

The short, black-haired man does just that and the curvy girl he has with him stands hands on hips sneering at us.

"Where were you when that little fracas started?" I ask him.

"And what might that be?" says he, calm as you like. It's difficult not to take a swing at him. For all we know there might be dead bodies littered all over town.

"Are
you trying to tell me that you didn't hear the explosions and rifle-fire, sunbeam?"

"Come to think of it, I did hear a noise, didn't you darlin'?"

"Well?"

"Nothin' to do with me, I'm just drivin' through with me girl-friend.
"

"Of course you were."

We go through the routine of P. Check and Vehicle Check and find that although there is nothing concrete on the bloke, he is definitely a suspect and on file in the Int. section back at Crossmaglen. The search takes quite a long time, the whole car having a thorough going over but with the result we expect. Zero. Zilch. Nothing. The O.C. has taken over talking to our hard-of-hearing Irish friend and I check back and find out what is happening at the base. It has been about fifteen minutes now since the firing ceased, so any hope of catching the perpetrators is gone. We cannot keep the two suspects any longer so the O.C. decides to lift the V.C.P. and go back in, sweeping through the woods and waste ground between us and the base. This could be fun. The chance of anyone still being around is remote, but then we had thought getting zapped on the first day was remote.

Oh well, take a deep breath, c
ollect the patrols together and
let's go!

"Hello 1, this is 11, we are approaching the rear of your location and will be in view in two minutes, over."

"1 Roger out."

I don't want some trigger-happy tom with the excitement of combat still on him, giving me a belt of 7.62mm rounds as soon as I show my face beyond the next hedge. No doubt there are a couple up in the O.P.s just itching to shoot at anything in sight. Let's just stay here a minute, give plenty of time for the message to get through. Beyond the hedge, I can see the base and the helipad with the stricken Wessex standing there, its rotor blades drooping as if feeling the pain of the rounds.

Right, out into the open and thank the Lord, no rounds are flying our way. Leaving one patrol to cover our backs we move down the football pitch towards the back gate which hopefully will have someone there to open it. Passing the Wessex, the colander effect of the bullets is plainly visible and it is also obvious that if there had been a full load of soldiers on board, a large proportion of them would either be dead or badly injured. This time we were very lucky.

"Bill, leave three men to cover the other patrol back in, then everybody into the briefing room in ten minutes."

"O.K. boss."

The O.C. has raced off to the Ops. Room to find out what happened and I'm off to the bo
g because my guts are playing up
. There isn't room to swing a cat in the base, so you have to thread your way past the scaffolding of the O.P.s and the accommodation that has been built into what was the courtyard of the police station.

"Hey, Tony, you missed all the fun," John, one of the platoon commanders, is coming towards me grinning from ear to ear. "It was great."

"That I will take your word about. What happened?"

"We were waiting by the gate for the chopper which had Just taken out my platoon se
rgeant's half. As it was coming
in to land they fired an R.P.G. 7 at it. The pilot and crew member saw it coming and managed to pull up in time, then he dumped it and jumped straight out of the cockpit. There was a lot of shooting going on so I took my patrol out and skirmished across to the bank on the other side of the helipad with the
O.
P. covering with the gun. They must have been a bit shocked by the speed of the reaction because when we got there they had gone."

"Where did the shots come from?"

"The waste ground by the hall. They must have had a car waiting and gone straight down the Dundalk road to the border. I think we may have hit one."

"Wishful thinking."

"You wait, there'll be some funeral notice in the next few days," he says.

"No way," and with that we part company, him going off on patrol, me to do my thing.

There is nothing like a contact to get the tour off to a good start, providing, that is, that none of ours are killed. Hey-ho, such is war.

"Cor, it was fucking great mate. You should have seen
s
arge giving them fucking rooty-toot. Great mate, great." The war stories are starting already. Let's hope you get to tell them in Aldershot.

The base here at Crossmaglen just has to be the biggest tactical farce of the whole Northern Ireland thing. It is situated in a pocket of the North surrounded on three sides by the border with the Republic, and the entire population of the district, with the exception of a couple of Prots, are Catholic, anti-British, pro-I.R.A. and a law unto themselves. Bandit country, the media have called it and it's not a bad label. The law, as such, does not apply here. Court summonses are ignored, taxes and bills unpaid, but they draw the dole even though a lot go off to the South to work. Then there is the Army base, sitting near the centre of town just asking for trouble. I would love to meet the lunatic who decided to set up a base here; he must have at least three heads!

The Ops. Room is chaos, so I slip quietly by and go on up to what we laughingly call the "Mess." It is a couple of tiny rooms shared by the officers and senior N. C. O.s and if we were all to get in them at once it would be standing room only. I've managed to get a bunk of my own, a room 7ft long by about 5ft deep. Just enough to get a bed and a drawer unit into. It must have been a broom-cupboard at one time. Anyway, at least I can have some privacy sometimes, being the senior platoon commander and all that.

The pilot and crew member of the chopper are sitting in the Mess looking a little pale and chattering away like crazy. Well, these R.A.F. blokes don't expect this sort of thing to happen to them. I think I'll leave them to it, I really can't stand war stories, especially on this first day. There is plenty of time for all that, let's get through the tour first and have the lengthy post-mortem in the comfort of Aldershot.

Down in the briefing room, my platoon staff and I are discussing the arrangements for the next week.

"We are going to be stretched for manpower, because not only do we have the
O.P.s
to man but also a town patrol and the admin. duties to perform. The C.S.M. wants the whole camp cleaned up and painted so that it at least looks presentable." My platoon sergeant giving the N.C.O.s the good news. There's more.

"Boss, I've got you down to take out the first town patrol seeing as you know the area so well."

"Cheers mate, I didn't think you would be sitting idly by whilst we were working."

He grins and utters those immortal words: "Quack. Quack." The rubber duck has followed us.

"O.K., I'll take Bill's patrol with me and you can put the others on stand-by."

Cpl. Menzies groans and rolls his eyes heavenwards. "Why didn't we get the country patrols first, boss?"

"Because it will give us a chance to go through all the Int.
reports and the personality
files. I want the whole platoon
genned up on all there is to know about this place. Anyway, going out tonight will give us a chance to have a good look around the hall and see if we can figure out a fire position."

"What time, boss?"

"In here at 1800 hrs."

"O.K., if you start getting your lads sorted out now, the
O.P.s
are manned, and I'll stick the rota and programme up in the stand-by room."

With that last word from my Sgt. the meeting breaks up and we go through to the Ops. Room
to
see what is going on. The 2 I.
C. is still at the desk fighting off the phone calls from TAC. wanting to know what had been happening. He apparently switched the radio off after giving the initial contact and didn't put it back on until he was ready to give a full report. The constant questions that come ov
er the air from TAC. H.
Q. in a contact situation are a pain and make trying to concentrate on the problem impossible. However, they are not very pleased and are in the process of giving him an earful. All of which goes straight over his head. He's too old to be messed about with and when this tour is finished is leaving the Army anyway, so doesn't give a damn what he says or to whom. A man after my own heart!

"Fucking TAC. can't send us anything to get this chopper out of here until tomorrow."

"What's up with it?" I ask casually.

"It has a suspected ruptured fuel line to one of the engines where the tail fin of the rocket caught it and the pilot says he won't fly it out unless he has both engines working.

Very inconvenient. While that thing sits there, no other helicopters can get in without landing in the open on the playing field.

"Can't they get somebody down here to fix it, or at least give an opinion?"

"Yes, some mechanic is coming."

Well, if he is going to be out there fixing it, that will mean lights and a guard all night. The lads will be happy. At least there is good protection with the guns up in the O.P.s.

"Come on boss, I'll make us a brew." So Denny, my Sergeant, and I go. Leaving the 2
I.C. storming
away on the phone.

The square of Crossmaglen, only fifty metres down from the base is getting darker with the fading light, the surrounding grey buildings throwing long shadows over the rough tarmac of the streets, vanishing into the pools of yellow light from weak street lights. This has been the last conscious sight that many soldiers have had, and no doubt will be for many more to come.

It's quiet with the only sound coming from the odd cars driving through. The bars are filling up but not as noisily as you would expect. Quiet men, sipping quiet pints in quiet corners. The look of distrust written all over them. Up on the hill to the east of the town the church stands blackly in the dusk, exuding a menace that is hard to define. If you aren't agnostic already, a trip to Northern Ireland will certainly make you one. How many evils have been committed in this country in the name of religion?
H
ow many have been martyred to a senseless cause? The shadows don't answer and the men can't.

We patrol quietly, slowly and stealthily. Although we are not going to be using flak jackets for the country patrols, it is ordered that we wear them in the town. They take a bit of getting used to as they are heavy and unyielding. It is during these first patrols that we find out which of the lads are going to need some rapid knocking into shape. Already there are a couple who sound like falling tins as they run, equipment rattling and clanking. Bill is getting more furious by the minute and, for sure, some unlucky tom is going to get panned when we get back.

It is very lonely out here, the whole atmosphere is charged with hatred and I can feel eyes watching us from behind curtained windows and hedgerows. We are right in the heart of their country and they only have to
bide their time before zapping
us again. The worst thin
g is just having to wait for it
to happen without being able to do a thing about it. Only our instincts and training are going to save us and sometimes that is not enough.

"Right, out of the car, bonnet and boot open, please." Bill has stopped a car, so the check and P. Check procedure is gone through again.

"Where are you from and where are you going?"

"Just come from down the road and I'm going up there." Really helpful these people.

"Now let's try that again, shall we? I'm going to ask you where you come from and where you are going to, and you are going to tell me. Exactly. O.K?"

"I come from my house and I'm going to the pub."

"Well, we're getting there aren't we? Now where do you live?"

He finally tells us and clears out on the P. Check. Pity. There are times when I really would like to have the powers that the South African Police have, then perhaps we would get a bit of co-operation instead of being messed about all the time. They know there is nothing much we can do and anyway, they've been through it countless times with different units so it's just another day to them.