offer, but most people bring and
use their own; they hold more.  For pudding,  there were six rounds of bread
I.C each and a sticky bun.
     One of the scaleys came in while I was still eating.
     "Can we have both teams  in the briefing room at nineteen-thirty for an
update, I thank you!"
     Some of  the scaleys  were  the world's oldest corporals and sergeants.
Because  they don't  want  to leave  Squadron,  they  forgo  any  chance  of
promotion that would mean moving out of Hereford.
     We sat down in front of the slime and finished off our stickies.
     "We  still  have seen only  X ray Two. All  the  negotiations are still
being conducted by the woman."
     We could hear her voice on the loudspeakers.
     "Can you turn that up?" someone shouted from the back of the team.
     Her words filled the room: "If you do not put our statement on the  BBC
nine P.m. and ITN ten P.m. news, we will start to kill people. We have shown
you that we are not savages, you have your old man and children . . ."
     "I want to help you," said one of the negotiators.
     "None of us want this to turn out a bloodbath, do we? I cannot make any
promises,  but  I  assure  you that  I am  making all efforts  to help  you.
Everything I said I would do has happened. We need to work together . . . ou
must understand I need time."  y  "It  is obvious you  are not listening. We
will start to kill if the broadcasts are . . ."
     Somebody turned the volume down.
     The slime continued: "As you heard, the  old man  and two children have
just been released.  He is in shock and cannot give  any information  of any
use apart from that he thinks there are four or five  and only one of them a
woman."
     One of the scaleys shouted out: "Stand to the I.A!"
     We ran to the vehicles and turned our radios on.
     Weapons were made ready and respirators put on while we screamed off to
the start line. The  people with the entry charges  were checking  to ensure
they were okay, and putting on the claymore clacker that would initiate  the
charge.
     "Alpha, Tango One and Two at the start line, over."
     "Roger that, out to you. One, this is Alpha, over."
     "One, rotors turning and stood to, over."
     "Roger that, out."
     On the net we  could  all  hear the  snipers  giving information on the
target: "More movement on White TwoOne and White One-One. There is screaming
coming from the ground floor, I can't tell what room."
     "Roger that, Sierra Two."
     I  heard  two  bursts of automatic  fire  and knew it wouldn't  be long
before we went into action.
     "Hello,  One  and One Alpha, this is  Alpha  One.  Move to your holding
area."
     "One, roger."
     We could not see them, but we knew that both helis would now be  flying
off to an area where  they couldn't be heard by the terrorists, waiting  for
the order to move on target. It was dark by now, and all lights were out.
     Steve and Jerry would be using their NVGS.
     The  chief constable now had to wait  for confirmation  that people had
been killed. The sound of shots was not enough.
     He was soon to  have  his confirmation:  A body was  dumped at the main
door with the threat  of another  one in five minutes  if the  TV  statement
demand was not met.
     The policeman spoke to C.O.B.R, and the decision was made.
     The squadron O.C got on the net: "Hello,  all stations,  this is  Alpha
One, radio check, over."
     We all answered.
     "All stations, I have control, I have control. I Call signs One and One
Alpha, commence your run-in."
     "One and One Alpha, roger that, out."
     It was on.
     The  helis dropped  low over the trees, still on their  NVGS. The doors
both sides  of the  Agusta  109s  were  open. Each helicopter had  four  men
aboard.  The number one,  who was  going to come down  the  fast  rope,  was
looking out  of the  helicopter as it screamed in, respirator on, looking at
the approach.  He had two hands  on the fast rope,  which was six inches  in
diameter.  The rest of  the rope dangled around his right foot ready for him
to kick it out; he'd put  two  hands around it,  grip also with the sides of
his assault  boots, and slide down, very much like a  fireman coming  down a
pole.
     "That's thirty seconds, thirty seconds."
     This was the last  chance to cancel. The O.C would have  looked  at the
policeman for confirmation.
     "All stations, I have control. Stand by, stand by . . .
     go, go, go!"
     The vehicles moved off with the teams holding on for grim death.
     As we turned  the corner, we could see the building;  Tango Two came up
level with us, and I heard the helis making their approach. They were flying
low toward the building, lower than the building itself.
     A  little arm  sticks out from each side of the aircraft  with the fast
rope; as soon as the helicopter starts to' hover over the target, the number
one kicks out the rope. As  soon as  the rope goes out, the number  one goes
with it; he slides down the fast rope before it hits the bottom of the roof.
     I  looked  up. The helicopters were coming in,  lots of  noise, lots of
downblast, shit  flying off  the roof. They  flared just ten feet  above the
roof. There  were  flashbangs  exploding, and by  now the  pilots have taken
their  NVGs off. The instruments are on a swivel on their helmets; they just
push them up above  their helmets  as NVGs are affected  by  flashbangs  and
would be whited out.
     The  helicopters were striining in a flare position, then started going
backward and forward two or three feet in a hover. The blokes were streaming
down the rope. The number three on each team had quite a task, because as he
fast-roped,  as  well  as  his  equipment,  he  would  be  bringing  down  a
rectangular charge over his shoulder.
     He'd  have to be really careful with it so he didn't rip off the det or
mess up the wiring.
     At one  time there were all four  of them  on the fast rope. As soon as
each man's feet hit the  bottom, he moved out of the way. As they came down,
they were  looking  around,  looking at the  floor,  making sure  nobody was
coming out of the skylights to start taking a pop at them.
     Seconds later the helis were gone.
     Someone put his head out of the top  left-hand  window; we  knew Sierra
One had him in  his sights;  there was no need for us to worry, that was his
job. He didn't get  on the radio, he just got his  telescopic sight on  him,
covering the assault as it went in. If he was a threat, he would soon have a
7.62 Lapua round in his head to make sure he stopped being one.
     On the standby the other two snipers around the back, Sierra Three  and
Four, had gone running forward with  G3s, choosing  areas  where  they could
cover two sides each. They didn't  need telescopic sights because they  were
so close; their G3s had normal iron sights.
     They had  the outside covered; they could take  any  runners that  were
coming out. If the X rays ran  out beyond the snipers, they'd get  caught in
the police cordon, but that never came into  the  equation; as somebody in B
Squadron once said, no one runs faster than Mr. Heckler & Koch.
     As the Range Rover stopped, flashbangs were going off.
     We  jumped  off and ran to the  main doors. They were  locked and still
covered  over  with curtains. Dave secured the charge  to the left-hand side
door  with doublesided tape; there  was enough  explosive  to blow the whole
thing in.
     Everyone was back  against the wall, looking up  with weapons  covering
the  windows. If anyone poked his head out with bad intentions, he would not
enjoy the view for long.
     As  he moved back, Dave checked with his hand the line of  the det cord
to  the  detonator and then  to the  firing  wire, a last check to make sure
everything was right. By checking, he could say, "Bin it," if it was screwed
up, and we'd go straight in with the axes, just as Tiny had had to do at the
embassy. Dave, was rushing, but  he was  still taking his time to  make sure
the charge was  complete.  The  last thing  he  wanted to do was  push  that
clacker and have nothing happen.
     Both  teams  were ready. As  Dave went past, Tim, the  number  two, was
ready with another flashbang.
     I  had  my weapon up  in the aim,  ready  to go in. As I  took  off the
safety, I shouted, "Go!"
     Our charge and one of the first-floor teams' went off at the same time.
I  started  to move.  The flashbang  flew past me, and I followed  it in. It
would be no good going in after it had finished; I had to be there with it.
     The hallway was dark  and  was starting  to fill  with  smoke from  the
flashbangs. Another one exploded, and I felt the effect of the blast.
     The noise jarred my whole  body,  and I  could  feel the pressure on my
eardrums. The flash was blinding, but I had to work through that.
     We'd trained  enough in  these situations;  my hands still arried  burn
marks from when one of the maroons had chit me.
     The whole building was shaking with concussion and seared by  sheets of
blinding light.
     On  my  right I could see  the  other team moving. I didn't look, but I
knew that my group would be heading for that first door.
     The hallway was clear.
     I turned and saw that I was number two at the door.
     The last two of my lot had gone straight for it and were waiting.
     I heard flashbangs and firing from the other floors.
     I ran over, pulling out a flashbang and getting right  behind the first
man. I put it over his shoulder so he knew that we were ready.
     The number three on the opposite side of us kicked the door open.
     As soon as four inches  of gap appeared, the  flashbang was in,  and so
were we.
     Nobody was worried about what was inside or what would happen when  the
door  was opened. We'd done it so many times.  There  was no time  to  think
about danger or the possibility of cocking up.
     The lights  were  on,  and the noise and flashes  were  doing their job
well. Dave went left; as I came in, I saw a group of people huddled together
in a corner but no people with masks or weapons.
     I heard an MPS fire.  One of the group pulled an AK and was bringing it
up.
     I  got my torch onto his head and gave him a quick  burst. The  Yankees
were screaming and crying and had to be controlled.
     Tim,  who was covering both of  us as we  took the room,  shouted, "Get
down,  get down!" He pointed his weapon at them to make them understand that
he was serious-and because there could be terrorists in the group.
     He was now dragging them down onto the floor if they weren't doing what
they were told. This was no time to be sensitive and caring.
     Dave moved  forward at  the same time to clear the room. Because he had
to move a settee, he let his weapon go on its sling and pulled his pistol.
     At the same time Tim was shouting: "Where  are the terrorists, any more
terrorists?"
     Once we cleared the room we were  going to the next one. As I came out,
Tim was  pushing  people  onto the floor and  shouting,  "Stay there,  don't
move!"
     The other teams  were  still doing their  stuff. I ran past our  number
four, who was covering the hallway. He was in a corner so  that he dominated
the whole area and at the same time could see up the staircase.
     I got  to the door and became number one.  The bottom of my  respirator
had filled up with sweat,  and I was breathing so heavily under all the body
armor  that  I  could feel its diaphragm clanking  up and  down. Tim came up
behind me and shoved a flashbang under my nose.
     Once we had a number three we were ready, and in we went.
     The room was empty.
     Shouts echoed from  other rooms  as  the  Yankees  were  controlled. My
breathing was labored, I was listening to the net,  listening to two lots of
people speaking at once.
     Oral commands were being  shouted through resp'  orators;  hand signals
were  flashing from man to man.  Throughout the building  there were weapons
firing, maroons exploding, smoke and people everywhere.
     It  was very claustrophobic Inside the  respirator.  I was a big sweaty
mess, trying to do my job and think of about ten things at the same time.
     We still had a problem. We didn't know if any X  rays had hidden  among
the Yankees-or maybe the Yankees were actively shielding some.
     The Stockholm Syndrome bonds victims to  their  captors; they had to be
covered with weapons until we knew who was who.
     Tim started  to move up the stairs, covered by a  member from the other
team. He moved very slowly, his pistol out, ready.  He was making sure there
was no  threat on the  stairs, and ensuring that  he didn't  have a blue-one
blue with the other link man he was to RP with.
     They linked up, and I got on the net.
     It had been  just over two minutes  from the "Go. go, go! "_ The firing
had stopfed, but the shouting had not.
     Smoke was billowing everywhere, and now all the call signs were sending
information  back on  the  net that  their  areas  were clear  and what  the
casualty state was.
     Fat Boy said, "We have a wounded woman."
     I looked around, and one of the Yankees was holding her leg.
     I got on to the net: "This is Three, we have a wounded  Yankee, request
medic backup, over."
     "Roger that, Three. He is on his way, out."
     Dave  went to the door  to  lead him to the casualty. I then got on the
net and gave my sitrep.
     By  now  the whole  of the front of the building was  floodlit, and the
hostage reception was ready for custom.
     "All stations, evacuate the Yankees, evacuate the Yankees."
     It  looked like a human conveyor  belt  as we  moved  people  out. They
mustn't have time  to think, they must be  scared; you shout  and holier  to
control them into the arms of the  hostage reception. Everybody was  picking
them up and shoving them, shouting: "Get up, get up!
     Move, move, move!"
     They got as hard a time as  if they were confirmed terrorists, lined up
facedown on the floor and handcuffed.
     "Stay still, no talking!"
     They were covered with pistols.
     The SSM came along  with  a torch, grasped hold of each person's  head,
and pulled it back, shining the powerful beam into his eyes.
     "Name?"
     When he was satisfied that everyone was who he said  he  was, they were
put on transport and moved away to the police cordon.
     "Hello,  Alpha One,  this  is Two. We have a possible I.E.D [improvised
explosive device]. We have marked it and are moving out.
     Over."
     They would put a small flashing yellow light on it.
     The  same would be done  for a man  down; yellow light penetrates smoke
better than white.
     Someone else was getting direction from CRW.
     "Alpha One, roger. RP with A.T.O, all call signs evacuate the building,
over."
     We all acknowledged, quite pleased to be evacuating.
     We could get back to the admin area, have a  quick debrief, and then it
would be wacky races back to Hereford. There  was a great  rule that whoever
came on  the helis went back on them. That was fine,  apart  from  having to
listen to Steve bang on about his latest squash game.
     The exercise had gone smoothly. We'd been good, and so  we  should have
been. We were  on the  ranges every day, leaping  onto  buildings, screaming
through  the CQB house,  running  around  with the  vehicles,  up  and  down
ladders, practicing until we could almost do it blindfolded.
     The only thing that didn't improve with the  training was that we lived
our lives with  a ring  around our faces  where the seal  of  the respirator
pressed down.
     The X rays had been members of CRW apart  from the woman,  who was from
the  Home Office.  They  had been  working to a brief that only  they  knew;
however, it  could have changed at  any time, depending on the actions of us
and the other agencies  involved. If they had seen anything to arouse  their
suspicions, they would have reacted.
     Part of learning to fight terrorists was knowing how to be one, and the
blokes  in  the  Regiment,  and  particularly CRW,  were probably  the  most
professional in the world. With our skills and knowledge we could bring down
governments in months.
     Things  started to go  really well with  Fiona. We were  sitting in the
front room one day having a romantic  conversation about  electricity bills,
and I said, "This  is quite  stupid.  Why  don't  we move in  together?  You
virtually live in my house anyway, so why don't you come in?"
     "I want'to  do that," Fiona said, "but only if you let  me go halves on
everything."
     "I buy the washing  machine, you buy  the hoover?" It  sounded good, to
me, and since I was on the team, at least  there was the chance of some time
together. We used it to the full.
     The house started to take shape. It was a nice little place, in a smart
part of town; we  really got busy redecorating, putting new doors up, and we
both  chipped  in  to  . have heating  installed.  Gradually  furniture  and
curtains appeared. As far as I  was concerned, I'd be  there forever;  there
was no reason to move. It really felt like home.
     In June 1986 I had one of  those mornings when I got into work at eight
o'clock and was out again by ninethirty. I came home; I'd been trying to fix
the exhaust  on the Renault 5 because the bracket kept falling off and I was
damned  if I was going to pay fifteen  pounds to have  it  sorted out. I was
trying to hold it on with bits of coat hanger and all sorts.
     I'd  spent the  afternoon doing that, came  in,  and was  sitting  down
having a cup of tea, watching the telly.
     Fiona had been downtown for a doctor's  appointment; she came in, stood
in the doorway, and said, "I've got something to tell you. I wasn't too sure
of your reaction, so I wanted to make sure. Andy, I'm pregnant."
     I felt as if I'd taken a straight right from Mike Tyson.  I said, "This
is really good. What do you reckon?"
     "I don't know. I don't know if it's good or bad. Do you think we should
have the baby? I'm for it if you are."
     "Right, okay, let's do it-let's have a baby."
     Was it the  right  time, was it the wrong  time? whoever knows?  It was
scary, but it  was  nice,  a wonderful feeling  of having  created something
worthwhile. So there I was, the expectant father.
     As the pregnancy  progressed, Fiona started  to go through a bad patch,
getting very tired with anemia.
     She'd get up in the mornings, walk  around, then have to  get her  head
down again. It was lucky that I was on the team because every spare moment I
had I could get back and  make her cups  of tea and  just be there. It would
have been tough for her if I'd had to go away; somebody would have had to be
there to look after her.
     Money was  tight. I was still on trooper's pay, although  I had reached
the dizzy heights of lance-corporal.
     The next step was the  big one; corporal's pay was  very good indeed. I
hoped I'd  have  sorted that  out  by the time the  baby  was born. Whatever
happened, nothing could  take away  from me how good it felt to have  a home
and a child on the way.
     Around  Christmas time, when Fiona was about seven  months  pregnant, I
found out that I had to go away on a team job in February. When I worked out
the dates, I found that it was the day before she was due to have our baby.
     "That's no problem,"  she said. "We'll look  up  a few old wives' tales
and jump up and down  in the rhubarb  patch or something to bring the baby a
day earlier. It might be early anyway. Let's keep our fingers crossed."
     She went for all the  tests and asked, "What are the chances of getting
the baby induced a day early? My boyfriend's got to go away and will be away
for a few months. He wants to be present at the birth."
     I was getting quite upset about it because I really wanted to be there;
this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me.
     But the team job  wasn't going to  be  knocked  back a day just because
Lance-corporal McNab was going to have a baby.
     I started combing magazines for possible "cures."
     "You'll have to get your  finger out  the day before," I said to Fiona,
handing  her the latest concoction I'd  read about-something  like Worcester
sauce  and pineapple juice. "Give this baby a  good  talking-to. Explain the
facts of life; it's got to come out early."
     Life went on. John McCarthy had been kidnapped in Beirut in April 1986.
In January 1987 so was  Terry Waite.  It wasn't  long before the press  were
speculating  about what  kind  of role  the  Regiment  might  be playing  in
securing their release.  On 28 January 1987, just a week or so after Waite's
disappearance, we all got into the crew room in the morning, normal routine.
It was a really miserable old day, windy and raining. Blokes had brought day
sacks in as usual,  with newspapers  and magazines in  case we got bored. We
passed them around, drinking tea and chatting. The big debate was whether we
should have a sports afternoon, a big tradition in the British Army.
     We  went down to the CQB house for a  couple of hours, got back,  swept
the  hangar  out,  and  then binned  it.  For  once  we were  all nodding in
agreement: a sports afternoon, a good thing to do.
     Gar was sitting there reading the  paper, and  he said, "Fucking  hell,
look, this is news to me."
     The Dally Express had the headline: S.A.S SCOUR CRISIS CITY FOR WAFTE.
     "Pity we're going gn this other job," Gar said. "We
     might have been getting a suntan soon by the looks of things."
     Nobody was  really that concerned about it.  If  it didn't  involve  us
immediately, we weren't particularly interested.
     I said  to  Gar,  "It was obvious he  was going to get lifted. I  don't
think there's a bookie in the land would have taken a bet on him not joining
McCarthy."
     "I know," Gar said.  "And  now some lucky fucker's going to be asked to
risk  his  life to  get him out."  Because  she'd  been so  sick during  her
pregnancy, Fiona had to go into hospital  for the last three or four days. I
visited her as often as I could and kept badgering the nurses into  agreeing
to induce.
     "Don't worry," they said, "we'll sort it all out."
     I  went into work and explained the situation to  the SSM.  "What's the
latest time I can get away on the Tuesday?" I asked.
     The SSM  went  over to  the clerk and said, "Danny, what's the score on
that job? What time are they leaving?"
     Danny shuffled through  bits  of  paper and said, "If he  gets  his toe
down, if he leaves at half past one, he'll get to Heathrow on time."
     "There you go," said the SSM. "Half past one."
     As I started walking out, he said, "Andy, make sure you're there.
     Don't fuck up."
     I  went  back to  the hospital, saw  Fiona,  and  said,  "Tomorrow,  at
one-thirty, I have to walk out of here whether we have our child or not."
     "I  understand, but don't  worry, we'll sort  something  out  with  the
doctors."
     I was getting quite upset; I really wanted to be there when my baby was
born. I kissed her good-bye  and said, "Get  your finger out!  Get this baby
born!"
     By  now her parents  had  traveled up from Hampshire and were  going to
stay at the house while I was away.
     Her mother said, "Don't  worry,  if she comes  into labor now, you stay
with her until one o'clock and then I'll come over."
     I drove back to work to sort myself out  so everything was ready to go.
I  had to run around to find somebody else who was on the team job  with me.
Johnny two  Combs was on it, but I couldn't  find him. I went up  to the gym
and there were Fat Boy and Paul  Hill on the weights, taking the piss out of
each other.
     Paul had joined the army after a career as a croupier in clubs.
     He had  an outrageous lifestyle and  was the ultimate party animal, out
every night, coming in to work knackered in the morning. He and Fat Boy were
in the Far  East once, playing blackjack in a really downmarket casino. Paul
with all  his  experience and  expertise was  counting  the  cards  and  all
sorts-and losing left, right, and center.
     Fat Boy, so pissed he could  hardly sit in his chair, walked awa ' with
a fortune.
     y I  said,  "My kit's  packed; it's in  the block. When you go, can you
make sure it gets on the wagon?"
     "No drama."
     I got back  in the car, went home, and  spent the  night sitting by the
telephone.
     Nothing happened.
     Next morning, the moment I got in the shower, the phone rang.
     Fiona's  father  said, "She's  going into  labor.  They said there's no
rush. Go down in about an hour."
     I was at the hospital ten minutes later.
     The contractions started, and we sat there drinking tea. She was  moved
to another room; they put the radio on and brought in the papers.
     She was scared; I  was  scared for  her.  Then  she said, "If  the baby
doesn't come before you have to go, it's not a problem, but I'd really  love
you to be here."
     It was the first time-ever that  I'd thought: I  don't want to go away.
Tomorrow, maybe even  in another few hours, but for this moment I don't want
to go. I so  much wanted to see this thing  that I had created; I had  never
felt so much affection and attachment  as I did for this child that I hadn't
even seen.
     At nine o'clock a nurse came in and said there was a phone call.
     Fuck! Fiona and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same,
that they wanted me down there now.
     I picked  up  the phone, and  it was  Paul.  "There's been a  change of
plan," he said.
     My  whole  body  sankHe started laughing.  "Gotcha! just  to say, we've
decided we might as well all leave together at half one."
     The labor  continued. There was me drinking more tea, her getting worse
with the contractions, and then, at midday, all the pain started.
     She was swearing and hollering, even with an epidural, calling me every
name under the sun. I felt useless. There was nothing I could do except hold
her hand. Then she didn't want me to do that. Then she did.
     It was a noisy hour. I felt  guilty because she was  in pain,  and even
guiltier that I knew I had to leave.
     Ever the sensitive father-to-be, I said, "Look, you'd really better  go
for it here. I'm off in half an hour."
     "I know, I know, I know."
     Her mum poked her head around the door at quarter past one.
     I gave Fiona a kiss on the forehead and said, "I've got to go."
     "I know-you bastard!"
     "I'll see you."
     I got in the car and went straight down to work. Everybody was  waiting
by the Ministry of Defense Police lodge.
     "What's happened?"
     "Jack shit."
     We  drove  to Heathrow at  Warp  Speed  Two,  me very pissed off on the
backseat and not involved in the banter.
     .  As soon as we arrived, I phoned the hospital. Nothing. I  checked in
and phoned again.
     "Anything happened?"
     "Who are you?"
     "I'm the father."
     "Okay, wait."
     I waited forever. "Nothing yet."
     I  went and  had another  coffee. The other boys were  up at  the  bar,
having a drink.
     I phoned again. Still nothing. It was time to  board the aircraft.  One
more call. Nothing.
     just as we were lining up to hand in the boarding passes, I gave it one
more try.
     "It's McNab again."
     "Wait, wait. I think her mother's going to come and speak to you."
     I heard the phone go down and footsteps running along the corridor.
     Her mother picked up the receiver, out of breath.
     "Just happened! A couple of minutes ago!"
     "All the arms, all the legs?"
     "Yes."
     "What is it?"
     "It's  a  girl.  She's  beautiful. I don't  know  the  weight  yet, but
everything's fine."
     A girl!
     I knew  her name was Kate. We'd already worked out what it was going to
be. It was quite  a shock. It  wasn't  high  elation. I felt numbed; I  just
thought, I'm a father now-and it must have been very smoky in the departures
lounge that day because as I put the phone down, my eyes were watering.
     I joined the others on the aircraft, and Paul said, "She had it?"
     "Yeah, it's a girl."
     "Congratulations, mate." He shook my hand, all smiles. "It feels great,
doesn't it?"
     Even  Paul, who lived his life somersaulting  from  good  time  to good
time, could remember what it felt like.  He had a passion about his daughter
that I'd never been  able to understand; it seemed  so strange, coming  from
him. This bloke who didn't seem to care about anything, just having fun  and
working and really going  for it, down in  his heart and at  the back of his
head, continuously, was  his daughter. Now I understood.  Now I knew exactly
how he felt.
     One of the benefits  of going on a team job was  that we traveled  club
class, so it was straight into the little bottles of champagne as we toasted
my good news. It was a long flight, and the six of us got quietly pissed.
     For  weeks  I was waiting  for more news. Letters  always had  to go to
Hereford for collation and were then sent on to an embassy or a consulate or
the agency that we were working for in whichever country.
     It took awhile for them to get to us, and I was gagging for a picture.
     At  last two letters turned up. I could feel that  there were  pictures
inside. As I ripped open the envelopes, blokes gathered around.
     Two-Combs  looked  over my  shoulder and said, "She's  beautiful, isn't
she?"
     "Fuck off," I said. "She's all greasy and covered in mucus.
     However, yes, she is."
     Then we all sat around cooing and admiring.
     It was  a  really  shifty  job  for me, tucked  away on the  side  of a
mountain for weeks on end, wishing that I was back in Hereford. But you have
to make a positive out of a negative, which in this  case was  that at least
it was another part of the world I hadn't seen.
     I came back in  late  May 1987, having  lost two stone. with dysentery,
but  not in  such a bad way as  was Two-Combs, who  was diagnosed as  having
typhoid.
     Two days later they decided it was a rupturing appendix.
     We got  back to the camp and unloaded  all the kit.  Fat Boy phoned his
wife to come and pick him up and said he'd drop me home.
     As  we drove around to the house,  I  saw the  curtain twitch, and then
Fiona came out onto the path with a bundle in her arms.
     I gave Fiona a kiss, then took the baby,  all wrapped up  and asleep. I
peeked inside the shawl and saw her face for the first time.
     I had a shock; her lip  looked  deformed. However,  the most  beautiful
deformed baby in the world.
     "What's wrong with her?" I said. "Is she all right?"
     "She's  only sucking  her  lip."  Fiona laughed.  "Don't  worry,  she's
perfect."
     Mr. and  Mrs. Fat Boy came over, clucking  like two hens.  They were as
smitten as I was, and  that was the start of it; for the next few years they
were producing children like people possessed.
     It was wonderful to have  some time with  Kate. I  spent hours watching
her little hands all clenched up, and I kept thinking:  I made that! I hated
the time that she was asleep and  willed her to wake up; I soon learned that
all they're doing at that age  is sleeping and shitting, but that was beside
the point.
     Eno and  I  got  an  approach  to take  a two-year sabbatical from  the
Regiment and  join  the "Det," an intelligence  unit  operating  in Northern
Ireland.  I was  on the M.O.E team at the time,  and  Eno was on  the sniper
team.
     We were having an administration morning in the crew room, dragging our
kit out, scrubbing it' and cleaning weapons. The  clerk came  over and said,
"Andy and Eno, the squadron O.C wants to see you."
     "Have we fucked up anywhere?" I said.
     "I don't think so."
     Eno looked as nonchalant and unconcerned as ever; he was so unflappable
his heart must have only just about ticked over.
     The Boss was  sitting at his desk. "Right," he said, I.C what would you
say if I said to you, Do you fancy going over the  water for two years  with
the Det?"
     We both said, "No way."
     The Det had once wanted a  Regiment bloke  to go and hide in Dungannon,
watching people go in and out of a betting office. The OP was compromised by
kids, and the bloke got away, but the Det wanted him to go back the next day
and do exactly  the same.  The ops  officer of the Det was overheard saying,
"It  doesn't really matter  if he gets  compromised because he's not  one of
us."
     John,  who  was running the troop, heard  about this and  went over and
sorted it out in his normal persuasive manner.
     Now  it appeared  that  two  blokes from  each  squadron  were  getting
approached and asked if they wanted to go.
     Most  of them  were saying no;  in the  end  the CO  called  in all the
squadrons and said, "The Det is something that you will do.  The skills that
they've  got, we  must have back. We're  starting to lose it,  yet we're the
ones that developed it. One  way  or another we will regain that skill. It's
all part of becoming a complete soldier;  we need complete soldiers." He was
quite a forceful characp ter. You either loved him or  hated him;  there was
no in between.
     A  few  days  later we were  called back  to  the  O.C. "You  have  two
options," he  said.  "You're either going over the  water for  two years, or
you're going nowhere.  You volunteered for the Regiment; you volunteered for
operations.  This is an operation;  if you're  refusing to go on operations,
you're not staying in the Regiment."
     So that was us off to the Det then.
     In  the  old  days,  with  a  division of responsibilities  in Northern
Ireland  between MIS and M16,  intelligence  generally  was piss poor.  As a
result, in 1972, the army established  its own secret intelligence gathering
unit, which was given the cover name 14th  Intelligence  Unit, or 14 Int for
short. Recruits were  taken  from regular  army regiments and  put through a
course that lasted several weeks and covered elementary techniques of covert
surveillance, communications, and agent running.
     Selection  forInt,  known to us as  the Det,  emphasized  the  need for
resourcefulness and psychological strength. There was not much call for  the
physical  stamina  needed  for  the   Regiment.  It  was  designed  to  find
people-usually officers and NCOs in their mid to late twenties, in all three
of the services-who were able to carry out long-term surveillance, sometimes
only a few feet from armed terrorists.
     My  appreciation of what was going on at the time was  that the Det was
looking for a  role beyond Northern Ireland. They  started saying they could
do all  our forward recces for us in  dangerous areas around the  world, but
that  was a  load of  nonsense. All their training was for Northern Ireland;
they couldn't  go forward and do  our recces  because  they didn't know, for
example, what our mortars or helicopters  and troops  would require.  Little
wonder they were called the Waits-short for Walter Mittys.
     The Regiment decided that they were going to get people  to go into the
Det as part of  their  normal regimental career. You needed an aptitude, but
Eno  and I didn't even want to be tested. There  was a  lot  of  antifeeling
about the Det, a feeling of "them" and "us."
     Four of us drove up-me,  Eno, a fellow  from D Squadron called Mac, and
Bob P from G Squadron.
     None of us wanted to be there; we all felt press-ganged.
     The first person I bumped into was Tiny. "I'm on the training team." He
grinned. "You can call me Staff."
     Eno said, "You can shove that right up your arseStaff." We knew all the
training teams, all the cooks, everybody who worked there.
     "The next six months are going to  be really  intensive," the  DS said.
"There is no time off. The only time you will leave this camp is when you're
working.
     If  not,  you stay in  camp. There are reasons for that, and  we're not
going to explain them at the moment."
     The four of us looked at one another and thought, Fuck this.
     For  the first  couple of nights we were sitting there  like dickheads.
Finally Mac said, "I'll  get  on  the phone to my wife, she'll come down and
pick us up."
     We put  our running  kit on and made it look as if we were  going for a
run on the training area. We jogged down the road, got  in the car, and shot
off to Hereford.
     Another time we organized a lift with  some of the team who happened to
be  training  in the same  area  as  we were. The  getaway  was  planned  as
intricately  as  a proper  operation;  the only problem  was trying  to stop
people giggling as we drove out of the gate.
     I got home most nights by eleven and  had to  leave the next morning by
six, but it was worth it.  I was  all bitter  and twisted, and  cheating the
system made me feel better.
     After a  month of this the Det  head shed got wind of it and decided we
needed gripping. We were becoming quite anti and a  law unto  ourselves. Mac
got binned from the course, which only made me even more resentful. After so
long in the Regiment,  living in  an  adult system, all of  a sudden we went
back ten years, and  I hated  it. He was chuffed to bits  to be back on  the
squadron;  the moment he got back,  however, he was told he was on the  next
course, starting from scratch.
     The rest of the  people on  the course were not supposed to know who we
were, but this didn't work because  there were  people on the course who had
done Selection with us and failed, as well as people from our own regiments.
One evening  I was-sitting in the  cookhouse with  Eno and  Bob P,  slagging
everybody down in  Swahili. A couple of G Squadron came in, got  their food,
and spotted us. "Oi, Andy, how's it going?" They came over, sat down, and we
carried on chatting.
     "How's it going in the Waits, then? You got your sneaky beaky kit yet?"
     "Men, yeah, it's really good.".
     I made sure  they  knew we  were  press-ganged;  I didn't want  anybody
thinking we'd volunteered for this cowboy stuff.
     "Oh,  well,  see  you later," they  said. "We're down the town now-it's
Friday night. What are you doing tonight? You  boys have  fun polishing your
pistols.' They  left, and  I  didn't think any more  about it. About a  week
later a couple  of  B Squadron blokes saw us in  the gym and said, "Remember
last week, when you were talking to G Squadron boys? They got a severe fine.
     Somebody saw you talking together and said it's compromising!"
     It only got us more sparked up and annoyed. This whole thing really was
a pain in the arse' Because the  course catered  for anybody from  anywhere,
the lessons started with things like "This is a bergen."
     They had to do it,  but we were spending this month being  taught stuff
that we'd been doing for years.
     I'd never been so bored. At last,  however,"the training  progressed to
skills  that were  new to me,  and  I started to  get a bit  interested.  We
learned  different surveillance skills,  countersurveillance skills, how  to
give  as  much information as  possible on the  net in the  least number  of
words. Their CQB course was  pure pistol work;  for us, there was no stress,
no strain, it was great.
     We'd be on the ranges all day, come back and do  surveillance skills or
CTR  skills  at getting into factories and houses. Sometimes  it was like  a
comedy  of  errors,  people  getting  stuck  halfway   through  windows  and
collapsing with laughter.
     Everybody was given an alternative identity, keeping the same initials,
and  the same Christian name, and something  similar to our  real name so we
didn't forget it. Working under an alias, we'd always sign our name in a way
that  reminded  us  what we  were doing; perhaps it was a pen of a  striking
color  or  one that w-e kept in our right-hand breast pocket rather than the
left.
     We  learned  the  skills  of  covert  entry  into  a  house to look for
equipment. We learned how to follow  a man and his family for weeks to  find
out  what  their  routines  were,  where  they went, who they did what with,
trying to establish a time when we could get into the house.
     Does he  go  to a social club every Saturday night with  his  wife  and
kids?  Maybe  on  average  he gets  back at I about midnight, so  you've got
between eight and  midnight to get in. But that's not good enough. if it's '
in July,  it's not going  to get dark until half  ten. So you might have  to
wait a couple of months, or get a time when he goes away, maybe to visit his
parents for the weekend.
     The surveillance had to be on him all the time, to make sure that  when
he did go to the club with his wife and kids, his wife didn't leave early to
put the kids to bed. We had to have  actions on what would happen  if we got
in there and somebody came home unexpectedly?
     It took weeks and weeks of preparation.
     We had to  learn how to  use all  sorts of cameras, including  infrared
equipment  that  would   enable   us   to  photograph  serial   numbers  and
documents-and to photograph photographs. It was a far cry  from  my  days in
the camping shops of Peckham.
     I discovered it  was  quite an intense  time,  getting into  somebody's
house-the pressure of doing it as  quickly as possible yet at the same time-
being methodical  and  not  cutting  any corners, because  you knew that the
result of carelessness could be somebody's death. By the end of the course I
had  learned  many different  methods  of planning and preparation  and  had
acquired a whole new range of surveillance, technical attack, and covert CTR
skills. I realized  that I  was fortunate, and I  looked forward  to putting
them all into practice over the water.
     Just before it was time to leave, Fiona and I had a chat.
     "I've got five days off," I said. "Do you fancy getting married?"
     "Why not?"
     Indeed, why not? We were a family. By now we'd moved  house again, into
one  of  the  new  estates  on the edge of Hereford,  and  everything looked
perfect.
     Dave, the  patrol  commander from Keady in my  Green  jackets days, was
best man. He did his duties, then spent the rest of the day trying to seduce
the witness, one of Fiona's friends. Kate was the bridesmaid.
     It was Kate's very first Christmas.  We went to stay  at a house on the
south coast. Kate wasn't  sleeping  very well, which I thought  was great. I
got the pram out at midnight, wrapped her up well, and we went walking along
the coastal path until six in the morning.  She fell  asleep after the first
half an  hour,  and as  I walked, I just looked at her beautiful little face
and clucked like a hen.
     When we  got back, she  woke up  again, so I put her in the car and  we
went for  a drive. I kept checking over  my shoulder to see that she was all
right. She had fearsome big blue eyes that stared at me from inside  all the
wrappings of woolens and a  bobble  hat. It was a very special time. In  the
next two years I would only see her for a total of twelve weeks.
     "Jerking,"  the planting of miniature transmitters inside weapons, more
correctly known  as technical attack, had started in the late seventies  and
offered an extra  option  to the security forces  when they  found  an  arms
cache.
     The idea  was  that the  devices would be activated when the weapon was
picked up, and the terrorists' movements could then be monitored.
     I'd  settled into the Det and  was  really  enjoying it. Eno and I were
sent to the same Det, which was working around  Derry city  and  surrounding
county. At half past six every night we had "prayers."
     All  the  operators  came in,  and we  ran  through  administrative and
operational points.
     It was Easter time. We had  a  bar in a hut, hundred of cans stacked up
and working on a trust system.  Everybody was  getting  a bollocking  for  a
party that had  happened the weekend before. The Det had a strong reputation
for being outrageous,in the bar, so much so that the windows were detachable
for partes  There was a strange ritual in the  bar  for any new member  that
arrived; everybody saved up his empty cans and the Det O.C would come in and
say, "Welcome to the Det.
     Here we have a celebratory pint of Guinness." You had to drink it while
they pelted you with empty cans. The party was one of these welcoming things
for two scaleys that had turned  up,  but it got totally out of control. One
of  the blokes had a Duran Duran  haircut that  he was  really proud of; the
others held  him  down and started cutting  it; he  jumped  to his  feet and
started punching people out.  They got two planks of wood and turned it into
a cross. They tied him on, hoiked it up, and left him hanging there.
     We put into practice  all  the skills that  we had  learned during  the
buildup:  covert  searches  of  houses,  office  blocks,  shops  to   gather
information. It was a kick, without a doubt,  going  into  somebody's house,
finding  information,  and  getting  back  out again.  In  the hard  housing
estates,  places like the  Bogside,  Shantello, the Creggan,  it was no easy
operation to get into places,  and it would take days, and sometimes  weeks,
of planning for a job
     that might take only thirty seconds to carry out.
     At  the end of  the  day it was inevitable that the IRA  would discover
that its weapons were being 'arked.
     These people  were not idiots; they had scanning devices and all sorts.
We were all playing a game.  They knew that the  weapons were being tampered
with;   they   knew  that  their  buildings  were  bugged.  They  would  use
countermeasures, which we would then try to countercounter.
     Another  possibility  open  to us was to replace bomb-making  materials
found in the hides.
     A novelist  wrote a  book in which the coffins  at  an IRA funeral were
bugged so  that the intelligence services could  hear  what was being  said;
from the moment  it was published,  it became  an IRA  procedure  that every
coffin and body were scanned with location devices.
     By now  it was the summer of 1988  and Fiona was running around looking
for a new  house. Prices were  going bananas, spiraling  out of  control. We
made an absolute fortune in  the space of a few months; a woman cried on the
telephone because she was too late in buying the house.
     "We'll now buy the biggest house we can with our money and do it up," I
said.
     She  found us a place while I was away, in  a village  about six  miles
from Hereford.  The house was bigger but needed some work done to it. It was
really exciting.
     I  came back on  five days' leave, and as soon as  I got back, we moved
in.  We got  cracking.  We  went  down  to  the plant hire  place and  hired
everything from strimmers to chain saws for our five-day blitz.
     As soon as it was light, we started on  the  outside; as soon as it was
dark, we  started  on  the inside. At four-thirty one morning I  painted the
garage door, and at ten at night was stripping wallpaper in the living room.
I loved it; it was family life: I  now had a three-bedroom detached house, a
garage,  a couple of  trees in the garden.  As  a  young kid I had  lived in
council houses or my auntie's house, and now I was looking at this wonderful
'lace, and it was mine.
     I had a wife, a child, a happy life in a small village, and  everything
was perfect.
     The future looked rosy.
     Kate was still in nappies,  and just to sit there and hold her was very
special. She had my eyes, and I never got tired of looking into them.
     We  were staking out  a bomb factory in an old Victorian house that was
halfway  through  renovation, with  whitewashed  windows and bare floors. We
knew it was a factory because Dave I and I had been in it the night before.
     We'd cleared  the house, pistols  in hand, in a semicrouch. The kitchen
was bare  concrete. Standing  in the middle  of the floor was  an industrial
coffee grinder; there might as well have been a sign up saying BOMB FACTORY.
We knew they would be mixing bomb ingredients  at some point. From now on we
would  have to stay It on target," watching as people went in and out of the
house.  Low  explosives  don't last  that  long if not  protected  from  the
elements. Once a bomb  was made, therefore, they tried to use it  as quickly
as possible; we had to be there to stop that.
     "That's two men, green on blue jeans, brown on black jeans and bald."
     "That's them into the house. Over."
     "Alpha. Roger."
     The stakeout took forever, and  we h'ad to walk  past the target to try
to make out what was going on. Had they finished? Were they still at it?
     "That's Delta going Foxtrot [on foot]."
     Alpha replied: "Delta's Foxtrot."
     I got out of my car. I was wearing a  pair  of jeans,  market trainers,
and my blue bomber jacket. My hair looked like an eighteen-year-old football
player's-long at the back, with short sides.
     It was  greasy, and  I  looked as if I had just got out of bed and  was
going to sign on.
     My car was old and in shit state to go with its owner.
     We were in Derry, between the  Bogside and  Creggan estates. The  names
suited the area, dark gray  and cold, lines of terraced houses  going up the
hill toward the Greggan. It was winter, and I could smell peat smoke.
     Alpha,  who was the team leader on  the ground,  wanted someone to walk
the alleyway that was between  the back of two rows of houses. I was nearest
and hadn't walked past yet.
     I clicked my comms: "Delta, check."
     "Alpha."
     As I got nearer to the alleyway, I noticed two lads on the corner.
     They looked  more or less the same  as me, apart from the cigarettes in
their mouths and  the rolledup newspapers in their back  pockets. They  were
sitting on a low wall at the entry point to the alleyway. Were they dickers?
I didn't know.
     The  weather  was cold and damp. This was good; I could get my hands in
my jacket pockets and get my head down, walking as if I was going somewhere.
     As I turned right into the alley and  looked uphill, there was nothing.
The  alleyway was just  hard  mud, filled with old cans and dogshit. The two
boys took no notice as  I walked past. It  seemed they were waiting  for the
bookies to open.
     It  was a horrible feeling going up that alleyway,  knowing  that these
people were behind  me. I walked with a purpose, not  hesitating  or looking
behind. I kept looking at the ground, as  if I was in a bit of a daze. I was
a bag of shit, so I walked like a bag of shit.
     Tucked in my leans I had my 9MM Browning and plenty of rounds.
     If they  said anything to me as I went in, I would have to try to avoid
answering.
     "Alpha, Delta, check?"
     They wanted to know how I was doing.
     I couldn't talk on my radio; the two boys would hear.
     I clicked my pressal button twice to send two quick bursts of squelch.
     "Alpha, roger that."
     Everyone now knew things were okay.
     The back door was closed, but I could just hear the faint  buzz  of the
coffee grinder in the back of the house; they were still making the bomb.
     People  were passing; I  could not talk yet, but I  could hear everyone
else on the net.
     "Alpha, November, going mobile." Eno was off somewhere else.
     "Alpha, roger that. Delta, check."
     Click. Click.
     "Roger that, are you past the house yet?"
     Click. Click.
     "Is the grinding still going?"
     Click. Click.
     I went  into the corner shop and got  a pint of milk  and  the Sporting
Life.  Now I would take  a  walk past the  front and see if I could make out
anything inside.
     "Alpha, Lima, I have Delta walking back to his Charlie."
     "Alpha."
     Rich had  seen me and was  telling  everyone what was happening. He had
been in the  Det  for  years  and  was  an excellent operator.  He often had
clashes with  the  head shed  as he was a  very  outspoken  person; however,
whatever he said made sense.
     "Delta's complete [back in the carl."
     "Alpha."
     I was now in my car, and I drove off.
     Nothing happened for about two hours. I  was still part of the stakeout
but not on top of the target, as I had already been exposed.
     This didn't mean that I'd hang slack. There was still a job to do.
     Everything that passed me I had to check it out. As well as see who was
in the area so I could report  it to others, I  could detect the mood of the
place: Does it look any different today? 1-f so, why?
     This was not a place that the tourist board would recommend.
     There was nothing passive about this work.
     Only  a  few months  before,  an operator  was  shot  near  where I was
sitting. He'd been doing exactly the same as I was, parked up and waiting to
go and do something.
     The players  saw him, must  have  thought there  was something wriggly,
went and got their weapons, and head-jobbed him.
     I  was parked  in a  line of  cars outside a  row of terraced Victorian
houses. I had the newspaper open and was eating a  sandwich. In front of me,
about a hundred meters away, was  the road  that the target was on, crossing
left to right.
     Alpha was talking on the net and organizing things to make sure he  had
a good tight stakeout when all of a sudden a blue flash went past me, two up
(two in the car). I saw a face looking down the road; he was aware.
     I tried  to cut  in on  the  net. "Stand by, stand by.  Charlie One  is
mobile. That's Charlie One mobile."
     I  couldn't get in; Alpha was still on the net. I had no choice but  to
"take" it. "That's Delta mobile."
     I carried on talking on the net, burning up the road toward  the target
car. I wasn't worried about the compromise factor now. It wouldn't matter if
I was leaving chaos behind me, as long as the players in front didn't notice
anything. The important thing was not to  lose that bomb. If we did, we were
talking about a lot  of dead people.  Passing a junction, I looked down left
but couldn't see  anything. I raced downhill  to the right, down toward  the
Bogside. As I passed two junctions, I  kept giving a commentary:  "Stand by,
stand by. Charlie One's mobile. Down towards the Bogside."
     At last I got on the net. "That's at the Bogside, still straight, still
straight. He's going towards the Little Diamond [an area of the Bogside]."
     "Lima's  mobile. Lima's trying  to  back  you." Rick was  driving  fast
toward me.
     I found the target  again just  as it  went into the Bogside and closed
up.
     "That's possibly two up, Sierra sixty to sixty-five.
     He's moving!"
     "Alpha."
     "November, Roger that."
     The rest of the team were  now racing toward the scene. To lose contact
with the bomb team could be fatal.
     The passenger  was turning  around, looking  straight at me. I tried to
look casual; we had a bit of eye-to-eye contact, and I looked away.
     I wanted the bomb to  get to  its destination, us to find the new hide,
get the  device, and  put  a  stop to  their plans.  To  have a contact  was
pointless; we wouldn't know the whole picture then.
     I was up at him now, and he was still looking straight at me.
     "That's confirmed, two up, very aware."
     We were  not going to do anything yet as they might  take us to another
safe house. But if they were going to place the bomb,  we would be there. We
just had to keep with it.
     By now  I  had  the  skill to  give a  commentary on the  net,  telling
everyone what was going on, not moving  my lips, trying not to catch the eye
of the boys in the car but at the same time stay with them.
     "He's turning left. Stop, stop, stop. Delta's Foxtrot."
     He got down to the bottom past the Bogside and  turned left toward  the
Little Diamond.
     "That's now left towards the Little Diamond. He's going into  the first
o  tion  left." I  knew the c' back  to pity front; I'd spent  so many hours
learning it and walking  it; I knew where all the players lived, what their'
kids looked like, where the kids went to school. I knew this was a dead end.
"That's a stop, stop, stop! stop, stop, stop!"
     I drove past their car and went off onto the waste area of the Rosville
Flats, the area of the Bloody Sunday shootings, where  there was a car park.
I stopped and got  out. I had to get on the ground straightaway  so that  by
the time he'd parked I was out and walking.
     "Lima's Foxtrot."
     Rick was right  behind me and stopped his  car as  soon as they  turned
into the  Bogside. I saw him walking into the dead end  of  the estate. That
took a lot of bollocks; he didn't know  what he was  walking into. Were they
armed? Were they ready with the bomb; was it now being brought out and moved
into another wagon? Was it going to be an armed bombing?
     As I walked  toward  the  open  square  of  the  estate,  I saw-an  old
converted container  lorry  that  served  as a shop.  Children  were running
around; women were  hanging off the balconies. There were a few cars  parked
up. There was nowhere to go, but we had to make it look as  if we were going
somewhere. It was no  good knowing  just that the bomb  was in  the Bogside,
because i the estate was a warren of little alleyways.
     We needed to know precisely where it was and who was handling it.
     Rick  walked past the shop and then saw the car. I followed to back him
up in case of dickers or a trap.
     He said, "Stand by, stand by. Charlie One's being unloaded.
     That's now being unloaded."
     I said, "Delta's backing. Delta's backing you, Lima."
     "They're loading it top left-hand side.  It's getting unloaded into the
top left-hand side flat. That's confirmed.
     That's confirmed."
     Rick  was walking through the alleyway. As  he  got further out, he was
able to talk. "Alpha, Lima. The device was  unloaded, and  it  went into the
top left-hand flat. There were about three people holding it, and there were
two dickers. It looks abandoned. There's some boards up on the windows."
     "Alpha, roger that."
     By this time I could hear the other cars  in the  area, keeping  an eye
out for other players. They would  be watching  the entrance to the  square;
the players might just be putting it in there, priming it up,  putting it in
another wagon and running it out. That bomb now had to be controlled all the
time. It mustn't go anywhere.
     Not so easy in the Bogside, but we did it.
     The decision was made  to  lift the bomb  by having the police raid the
square and take it. There was  nothing much said in any  newspaper, national
or local, about the incident. It was just another "find."
     PIRA -put it down to a tout, but it wasn't anything of the kind.
     It  was   the  Det  spending   hours   of  intelligence  gathering  and
surveillance.
     The  way this was  done was  by  people  being in these  hard areas and
getting up against the targets.  If that bomb had  gone off, tens  of people
could have been killed.
     Such incidents made me glad that I had been  sent to the Det. They made
me understand how professional they were and not just Walter Midis.
     Having said that, I itty Waits.
     would  never admit it: they  were still the By now I was a corporal and
things looked promising.
     Eno  and I were team leaders in the Det and even considered coming back
for a second tour.  The words of the  CO at the time of the great press-gang
had been: "What we want is a complete soldier, one who can operate from both
sides of the coin. The only way you are going to get operational  ex erience
on the other side  ising to the Det." p by goHe was scoffed at then. But now
I knew he was right.
     The Regiment  were getting the  most  highly trained and  operationally
experienced  soldiers in  the  world,  capable of  manning  a GPMG in a slit
trench  or  walking around an alien environment,  blending  in  and  gaining
information, and I was very proud to be part of that.
     Eno, Brendan, Dave 2, and I were out on the  ground one day,  following
two boys out of the Bogside up toward the Creggan Estate.
     They  were  moving  carrying rifles and radios  wrapped  in  black  bin
liners.
     On the net I heard, "Stop, stop,  stop." The boys had stopped somewhere
behind a row of buildings.  Eno came  on the  net "That's them now complete.
That's now complete-o'the of the gardens. Wait . . .
     wait  .  .  .  That's  now  complete the  row  of  gardens-twenty-four,
twenty-five, twenty-six."
     We now knew that they were messing around in the area of  those gardens
and  Eno  could see them. As he  walked past the fence that ran parallel, he
looked left  out of the corners of his eyes. "They're putting it in the coal
shed. They're putting it in the coal shed.
     Wait . . .
     wait . . . That's confirmed, the weapons are in the coal shed."
     Brendan, the team leader, still in his  car, came back:  "Alpha,  roger
that."
     We'd  just  spent the last three hours following  these  people around.
We'd picked  them  up in the Bogside, where there was a  hide that  we  knew
contained  weapons.  The  Bogside  was  a  maze  of  sixties-style  concrete
and-glass flats and maisonettes linked by alleyways and dead ends. The place
was in shit state. Dogs barked and skulked; kids hollered and hurtled around
on push bikes or kicked balls against the wall. Women shouted at one another
over the landings.
     Unemployed men sat on steps, smoking and  talking. It was November, and
at three-thirty in the afternoon it was very cold.
     We wanted to make sure where the  weapons were going to. We "took" them
from the Bogside up toward the Creggan, and now they were behind these three
houses.
     The  Creggan was  on the opposite high ground,  the other side  of  the
valley, looking down on the walled city of Derry. Unlike the Bogside, it was
laid out in  long lines of brown-brick terraced  houses, a big estate with a
central grassy area and shops and a  library. By the time we got up there it
was just starting to get  dark  and I could see my breath. I was  wearing an
old German army parka, jeans, and trainers.
     My hair was  still long and  greasy, and I  hadn't  shaved  for days; I
blended  in well.  I felt quite happy in these areas now; we'd  been  on the
ground for some time and were well tuned in. And at the end of the day I had
a big fat gun tucked inside my jeans.
     These were hard areas, and there had  been a lot of contacts. I laughed
to myself when I remembered the phrase "passive surveillance."
     I  thought,  There's  fuck  all  passive about being  in  the  Bogside,
following two  blokes with  weapons, going up  to the  Creggan  to  see what
they're going to do with them.
     Eno came on the net. "I'll go for the trigger."
     Alpha came back, "Roger that. November's going for the trigger."
     We now had to control the  weapons;  if they were moved from that spot,
we had to know and be able to follow them, wherever they went.
     If they stayed put, the plan was to get them out of the coal shed later
that night and lark them  there and then on the spot.  Either  way  we would
have control. The problem was hanging  around in the Creggan for that amount
of time. Everybody on these estates was very aware,  from small children  to
old  grannies. There  was  always an  atmosphereof  high tension. Two  weeks
before, a soldier  had got shot straight through the  head, and everybody on
the estate was well pleased with the effort.
     Eno was at  the  bottom  of the garden,  down a little walkway that ran
between some garages and the garden itself. He was tucked in to one side; if
he got discovered, he'd just pretend that he was having a piss and then walk
away. This was  where all  the  CQB  training  and  skills came  in; it  was
deciding when the situation demanded that you pull that gun.
     He whispered, "November's got  the trigger. I'm down  the bottom of the
path, between the garages and the gardens."
     "Alpha, roger that. November's got the trigger."
     Eno was going to stand there in the dark, about fifteen meters from the
weapons. If  there was no need  to move until midnight, he wouldn't. Brendan
was further down the road in a car, ready to back Eno if anything  happened.
Dave 2  and I were just swanning around, me  in my eight-year-old Volkswagen
GT waiting to respond.
     I parked up. It was  now about  five-thirty in the evening, and all the
streetlights were  on. Smoke  started to pour from the  chimney pots,  and I
could, smell burning peat and coal. The field across  the road was a  jumble
of wrecked cars and roaming horses. It was starting to drizzle.
     I got out of the car and said, "That's Delta going Foxtrot.
     "Alpha, roger that-Delta's going Foxtrot."
     I heard: "That's Golf going Foxtrot."
     We  were  all  off  to  the  Spar  shop down  the  road.  I  bought  my
"blending-in" items-a can of Coke and a copy of the  Sun-and lounged against
the wall. Dave 2
     bought a  bag  of chips from the van outside and  joined me for a brief
chat.
     I drove  around the  block, parked up  somewhere  else, and went for  a
walk.  It was about  seven o'clock  when I heard Enos voice, calm  as  ever:
"Stand by, stand by.
     That's two Charlies coming in."
     He gave the registration numbers and descriptions of the cars.
     "That's three Bravos coming out. One  with long dark hair, jean jacket,
and jeans; one with a blue  nylon parka and black trousers; one with a green
bomber jacket and blue jeans.
     "It's  looking  all  very businesslike," he said. "It  isn't  a  social
thing. They're very aware. Something's on."
     I sat in the car, reading the Sun and drinking my Coke.
     Alpha acknowledged. Other call signs went mobile, orbiting around Eno.
     About twenty minutes later  I heard: "Stand  by, stand by. That's three
Bravos Foxtrot  towards the car. That's at the cars,  still going  straight.
They're  walking towards  me.  They're starting  to put  masks  on. Possible
contact.
     Possible  contact. Stand by." Eno never flapped; his voice was calm and
relaxed.
     If they were putting the masks  on and walking toward him, as far as he
was  concerned he'd been compromised-but maybe not  yet. He hadn't seen  any
weapons, so it was pointless doing anything at the moment.
     Very casually, he started to describe what was going on: "They're still
coming towards me."
     We were getting out of the cars; we had to start closing in, but we had
to do  it in such  a manner  that it didn't compromise what was going on. It
might be a  false  alarm. They might just walk past and go and do  something
else; then we'd follow them. As they got closer to him, Eno couldn't talk. I
started to walk quite fast toward him.
     Alpha got on the net: "November, check."
     Eno gave him two clicks.
     "Are they still coming towards you?"
     Click, click.
     "Have they still got their masks on?"
     Click, click.
     It went quiet  for a while. I was still  walking fast. As I got  to the
area of the  cars, I could see down  the alleyway. I always used to carry my
pistol  tucked down  the  front of my jeans. I remembered the story Mick had
told  us about the boy getting  pushed in the Shantello; the only thing that
had saved him  as  he rolled was having his pistol to  the front. I  took my
gloves off as I walked and threw them on the floor. If I had to draw my gun,
I'd lift my  jacket with my left  hand  as high  as it would  go, with a big
aggressive motion, then draw my pistol with my right. I was expecting to see
these  boys going down the alleyway to Eno and opening  fire, but I saw jack
shit.
     All of a sudden Eno came on  the net. "They've gone right; they've gone
down the side of the garages."
     As I looked down  the line  of the fence, to the right of me was a line
of garages.  I  knew  they'd  gone  down there and were  walking behind  the
garages. They didn't have the weapons; those were still in the coal shed. So
what were they up to?
     Brendan  was  coming from another direction, walking  along the back of
the garages. As soon  as  he heard that they'd turned right,  he did a quick
about-turn and walked off. He didn't want a head-to-head.
     However, he now had these three masked boys behind him.
     He landed up %walking about ten meters in front of them, down  the same
roadway. He could hear them  getting closer and  closer.  He could hear them
talking.
     "That's it-they're right behind me. Stand by for a possible contact."
     I  knew  Eno was off to  my left-hand side somewhere.  I wanted to make
sure I  got behind these  people.  Then  I  heard  Brendan: "I have from the
front. I have from the front."
     I said, "That's Delta backing you, Hotel."
     Dave 2 said, "Golf's mobile."
     Wherever  we went now, Dave 2 would make  sure he was following us with
the motor. We kept on walking.
     They  weren't  talking and  were  fairly  aware.  The  alleyway  was  a
well-used thoroughfare that linked two sets of gardens; it wasn't suspicious
for us to be there. The ground  was  pitted asphalt, littered with old cans.
Looking to the  left, I saw  people  doing their dishes  at mistedup kitchen
windows.
     "Golf, Delta, check."
     Click, click.
     "Are you still backing?"
     Click, click."
     "Are they still along the back of the garages?"
     Click, click.
     "Are they still hooded up?"
     Click, click.
     The garages went on for about  sixty or seventy meters.  As they got to
the  end, they  turned right. Brendan kept on going  straight; I came on the
net and said, 'They've gone right towards the main [main road."
     Brendan said, "Roger that. I'm going complete. I'm going to my car."
     I said, "Delta has unsighted. Wait. That's unsighted, Delta checking."
     I got to the  edge and  turned right, just  catching  them out  of  the
right-hand side  of my  vision. They were opening  up  a garage right at the
end. But they didn't have  masks on.  I carried on walking and said, "That's
the three Bravos; they're at the very end garage, and their masks are off. I
do not have."
     I  had to keep going straight.  This was worrying; nobody had got  them
now. Were they going to drive off?
     Dave 2 parked up on the other side of the road and was looking down. He
came on the net: "Golf has, Golf has."
     I said, "That's Delta going complete," and headed for my car.
     Dave was giving a  commentary on  what was going on: They went into the
garage, put the  light  on, were  in  there  for a-bout two minutes,  mucked
around with a car inside, came out, and closed the door.
     "That's them now walking back to the house."
     Then Eno picked  them up. "November has. They're now going complete the
house [into the house], with no masks on."
     "Alpha, roger that."
     We didn't have a clue what was going on. This was often one of the  big
problems  facing  us:  We  saw things, but we didn't  know  what  they meant
because we'd seen only a portion of the action. Why had they  got masks  on?
Why  had they  taken them  off?  Had they just canceled something? Had  they
canceled it because they'd seen us? Or were they just doing a drill? But why
practice with the masks on?
     None of our questions was ever answered. The four  of us  had  to  lift
off, and another team came in to take over; we were overexposed in that area
now and might have been compromised.
     When we got back to the briefing  room, the Boss said, "We're not going
to put a tech attack in. We're going to lift it tonight."
     The other  team was now covering the  weapons. The R.U.C went down  and
searched a lot of houses, lifted the weapons, and that was  the end of that.
We never found out why the boys had their masks on.
     Some of the characters got so  much into the work that they didn't want
to leave.  Some blokes were on their third or fourth tour, completely caught
up in it. There were some weird guys there as well, who couldn't cut between
real life and what was going on in their work.
     I knew I was starting to  get  totally engrossed. It was exciting being
in the'Bogside on a Saturday night at eleven o'clock, watching known players
come out of the pub, lining up and getting their food.
     Even  if  we  weren't  working, we'd go  down  for  some "orientation,"
walking around and  getting to know the places and the people. After a while
we  got comfortable in  these  well-hard areas  and could tell instinctively
when something was up.
     Dave was well on the road to the funny farm. The sink overflowed in his
room while he was  out. When he came back, the carpet was totally sagged up.
Dave's  remedy  wasn't to take the carpet up or open the windows  and let it
dry out; it was  to go and buy  a huge bag of mustard and cress seed and sow
it. Then he turned the heater up, closed  the door, and proceeded to live in
a room full  of crops. "Want to know how  to survive,  Andy?"  he said to me
once. "Never eat anything larger than your own head, anything that you can't
pronounce or spell, or tomatoes."
     Sometimes such bizarre things happened on operations that I'd wonder if
I was in a dream. It appeared once that at some point in  the next few days,
at pub  kicking-out time, some buses were  going to be hijacked from the bus
station, put across the street as barricades, and burned. We put in a number
of reactive OPs so  that when it  happened,  the H.M.S.U (R.U.C Headquarters
Mobile Support Unit) could  steam in and do their business-and if the police
couldn't get there, we'd be the last resort.
     We split up into three gangs of two and were in positions from where we
could trigger it. Me and Eno had MP5s and 9MM pistols. To get as close as we
could, we decided to crawl into the scrubland where the concrete area of the
bus depot ended, right on  the edge of  the compound itself.  If we did  get
compromised, we'd have it that we were on the piss, so we each took a couple
of cans of Tennants lager, the ones  with the  picture of  the  woman on the
back. We sat down and nursed Penelope and Samantha,  keeping our eyes on the
target.
     Everybody started streaming out of the pubs and getting on the buses to
take  them  out to their little enclaves around Strabane. There  was a  taxi
rank nearby as well, and it was the typical Friday night scene. All the boys
were pissed up, trying to chat up fat slags  who smelled of outrageous cheap
perfume and were more interested in shoveling large pizzas  into their faces
than in getting laid.
     The next thing that caught our attention was two  women,  hollering and
shouting with each other, laughing away and smoking. They were coming toward
us, giggling about needing a piss.
     We came up on the  air and said, "Stand by.  That's two echoes  [women]
coming towards us. Wait out."
     .  The next  thing  we knew, the pair were virtually standing  over the
bushes we were hiding in. Then,  still cackling and shouting,  they squatted
and opened fire.
     I was number one on a -oh on the shore of Lough Neagh. The nearest town
was Glenavy on the eastern shore.
     The ops officer brought us in and gave us a briefing.
     "There's  the general area."  He  tapped  a  map. "Somewhere around the
shores of the lake there,  and going  up  in  the fields in  this area here,
there's a fearsome hide.
     Apparently  there's  shotguns, radios,  all  sorts  of  shitprobably  a
complete  A.S.U's  worth of equipment. We're going to  keep going  in, night
after night, until we find it.
     What  I  want you to do  now is  plan  and prepare  a CTR for  tomorrow
night."
     I picked up the Hasselblad cameras and jumped into the Gazelle; minutes
later we were flying over  Lough Neagh, the largest lake in Europe. While we
did a normal flying pattern, I took pictures.
     We  spent hours  pondering over  the  photographs,  trying  to look for
natural points that would be markers, or natural areas to put a hide.
     It could be in the corner of a field or,  say, the third telegraph pole
along where there was a big lump of stone.
     it was daunting. The area covered a square kilometer  of hedgerows  and
shoreline. It  was summertime; we weren't  getting  more  than  six hours of
darkness, which meant we had to get in there, use the six hours, and get out
again, not leaving  any sign in the fields; all  the crops were up and would
easily  get trodden down  and leave sign. And  then we'd have to go back the
next night. I And the next.
     The ops officer was Pete.  He looked like Mr. Sensible Dad, happy owner
of a Mini Metro and  frequenter of B&Q, and wearer of Clark's  shoes, Tesco,
trousers  and V-neck jumpers-180 degrees from my look of Mr. Bag o'Shite. He
said, "You're going to be  there all month by the looks of things. just tell
us what you want by four o'clock, so I can start organizing it."
     I sat down and looked  at all  the  options. Because this place was  so
isolated, there was no way we could get vehicles in to drop, us  off, for us
then to patrol  in. The only  way  we were going  to  get  in was  by Scotty
beaming us-or via the  lough. The only way we were going to get in from  the
lough was by boat,  and the only  people who  were going to do that were the
Regiment.
     I said to Pete,  "You're not going  to  believe this. I want two  boats
over with some blokes."
     He went away shaking his head. Two hours later  he  said, "Right, we've
got a Chinook coming over with A Squadron Boat Troop. They'll be waiting for
you."
     I was happy. "I'll also need six blokes."
     "Okay, there's you and Dave two, and I'll get another four on it.
     I've got a Wessex coming in to pick you up  and fly you down to meet up
with A Squadron. The QRF you've got are two call signs of H.M.S.U."
     All in all, there were just  over a hundred people involved,  plus  the
expense  of  flying A  Squadron over for the recce. Pete said,  "This is the
most outrageous recce we've ever done. You'd better find it!"
     When we landed in the Wessex, there was  a  hive of activity at  the SF
base. The H.M.S.U had turned up. Because of some of the experiences we'd had
with the  army QRF, the Regiment and Det now always used the H.M.S.U. We had
a really good relationship  with them: We'd go to their houses; we knew each
other;  we got on really  well. On jobs like this it  tended to be the  same
faces every time.
     A Squadron were on the team; they'd taken  all their black kit off, got
hold of the boats, and  got  on  the Chinook. They thought  it  was great. I
found them pumping up their boats, checking the engines and putting dry bags
(diver's dry suit)  on. They  didn't have a clue  yet what was going on. All
they'd been told was to get over here and sort themselves out.
     The H.M.S.U were unloading  their  bags  into  the  accommodation. They
would  stay here and come screaming out in their armored Sierra 4x4s if Dave
2 and I were in the shit. They were expecting  to be there for  the next two
week and . were smacking their lips at the thought of all the sovertime.
     I got everybody  together and explained what was going to be happening.
"We're  going to leave  from  here in the  two Geminis. Once  we  get to the
dropoff point one of the Boat Troop boys  will swim and check  the shoreline
to make sure everything's all right for us to land.
     "Once we've landed, A Squadron will stay where they  are, with Rick and
Eno.  Dave  and myself  will then  start going  forward  to do the  CTR. The
general route we're going to  take  is along the hedge line here, then start
working our way north.
     "You can see on the map the checkpoints I've marked.
     When I reach them, I'll radio back to the boats so you'll  know where I
am.  If we find  a hide, then depending  on the time, I'll call  in Rick and
Eno,  and they'll put in the technical attack. If not, the cutoff time stays
as it is and we'll come back tomorrow night. Easy!"
     It looked more like a  fighting patrol than a recce patrol.  We had two
boats, A Squadron were in their dry bags ready  for the swim; two Det blokes
in each boat, both in full uniform, bergens on, carrying G3s, all cammed  up
and ready to go for it.
     We all trundled down to the boats,  only to discover  that  the edge of
the lake  further down was  lined with civvies with fishing rods. I'd wanted
to start trogging down the river toward the lake so that just as it was last
I light,  we'd  have traveled  some of the distance. Instead  we  had to sit
there, waiting for the fishermen to go home.
     At last light we paddled our way down  river until we got on the lough,
then opened up the engines. The Geminis bounced up and down in the chop, the
Boat Troop wearing their PNGs (passive  night goggles)  as they navigated us
to the dropoff point.  It was totally dark, and I felt as if we were on  the
sea. Finally the engines stopped, and  they  started paddling in a bit.  Two
blokes, each with a weapon, jumped into the water in their dry bags and fins
and disappeared.
     The flash of their  red  torch told us that they had cleared the beach.
We paddled into  the edge, and the boats  ' were tied up. We put our bergens
on  and  set  off, carrying photography  kit  and large radices so  we could
communicate with  the  rest of the patrol. I thought  there was no way  we'd
find  it  on  the first  night, but at least we'd have  a rough idea of  the
ground and could come back time and again and dissect it.
     At about twelve-thirty we were moving up a hedge line. Ahead of us in a
corner of the field we could make out the shape of what must have once  been
an old  workshop or farm building. The ends were semicircular  and  built of
breeze blocks, and the roof had been corrugated Iron.

     The  metal sheeting was rusty and full of holes and in most places  had
fallen down onto old lengths  of wood, broken bricks, bottles filled up with
mud. Sitting to the right was a  rusting 1950s-style  tractor without tires.
Debris lay all around: empty paint tins, rolls of
        I

     moldy old carpet, plastic fertilizer sacks, and little piles of rubble.
About fifty meters beyond  was a row  of  four or  five  traditional-looking
terraced  houses,  probably built in the days of  tenant farming. The people
who lived  in them now perhaps  still worked the land-but obviously  weren't
very tidy.
     As we started to walk closer, we, had a good look at the layout  of the
buildings. Obviously they would have to  be searched at some stage, but that
'would  take a  night  in  itself. Then I  spotted  something that  had been
obscured  from our view by  the dead  tractor.  A  number of  large-diameter
four-foot-long plastic drainage pipes, each with a male and female end, were
stacked up against the building. There were  three on the bottom of the pile
and two on the top, but the strange thing about the arrangement was that the
ends against the wall were draped  over  with newspaper. At what should have
been  the open ends of the pipes was a small pile of bricks; above that were
pieces of corrugated iron that looked out of place, because they just didn't
look ramshackle  enough. I looked at the stack and thought, No, it's far too
obvious; we've got that as a marker; let's  carry  on with the patrol and go
and see what other possibles there  are. Otherwise we could  spend all night
doing this because it would take a long time  to dismantle, and if it turned
out not to be a  hide,  we'd have  lost a lot of valuable  time. We  kept on
going and were looking at a small culvert that ran under a track. We checked
a  rubbish tip  area, looking for large drums. It  was a  pain  in  the arse
because it had to be done slowly. We had to make sure we didn't leave sign.
     Dave 2 came up and  said, "Tell you what, let's go back and have a look
at that marker. You never know."
     The site  was surrounded by  long grass. Some of it  on  the right-hand
side had been trodden down, but that meant nothing. We went around the edge,
crouched down,  and looked. We  studied it for about five  or ten minutes to
make sure that  we could  recognize exactly  how  it looked. I took some I.R
photography of it.
     We then  started to take off the top layer  of wriggly  tin.  This  was
quite a pain in the arse: There was the  risk of noise, and as we moved each
sheet, it scraped against the others. It was also slightly dug into the mud,
so to make sure that the earth was still  nicely presented, it was a lift, a
push  up  and  a bring out.  As the wriggly tin started to come  off, Dave 2
would pass it to me, and I would then lay it out  on the ground in  order so
we knew exactly what bit of which went where.
     As soon as we had also  got a couple of the  bricks out of the way  and
there  was just enough room to peer inside, Dave 2 got out his Maglite torch
and  shone the tiny  beam down into the pipes. He  couldn't see anything. We
started pulling  off  more  bricks, one  by  one. It  was  like  a  surgical
operation; I was laying them in a specific order so I knew which  went where
and we could put them back exactly as we had found them.
     Dave was taking his time, looking at every  brick before he  lifted  it
up. He took one brick off-nothing.
     Another-nothing.  Then  all  of a  sudden  he  leaned  back,  gave me a
thumbs-up, and whispered, "Bingo!"
     It was the word everybody liked to hear on the net.
     "Don't know what it is," he whispered, "but it's definitely a hide."
     I got the radio out and communicated back  to the boats.  "Hello, Lima,
this is Alpha, over." I got nothing.
     I tried again. The hide must be in a blind spot. I  knew  that  without
comms the blokes would be flapping because they didn't know where we were on
the ground and therefore couldn't back us quickly if we had a drama.  It was
now about  one-thirty. I sat  there pissed off that we  weren't getting  any
comms and worked  Out  that by the time  we  walked to the boats to pick the
lads  up  and  bring  them  back to  the hide,  then larked the  weapons and
replaced the hide, we'd  have run out of dark time hours.  That meant me and
Dave  2  staying on  the  target and everybody  else  going  back  and  then
returning the following night.
     We both started to put the bricks and tin back in order, Dave 2
     putting  his  hand  out  for  each  item  like  a   surgeon  requesting
instruments. It had taken us an  hour to  open up the hide, checking all the
time  for telltales and that the cache wasn't  rigged up with  a booby trap,
and it now took us as long to put everything back.
     "I could see  some longs wrapped  in black plastic bags and  some  more
shit deeper in ilie hide. I couldn't make it out," he said.
     We  moved back down  to the boats,  and I explained  what was going on.
"Dave two  and I'll  just sleep here on the  shore," I said. "We won't watch
the hide-it's pointless, it's too exposed-but we want to make sure we can go
back  at last light, and that gives  us an  extra two hours  to get the tech
attack in. We can get the kit out as they are moving to us."
     Next day we  just  sat there  and lay up  in  the  shade, watching  the
fishing boats and  pleasure craft on the lough. One of us went on stag while
the other one slept.
     About two hours before  last light  we got back on the radio  and spoke
to' the blokes  on the boats to check that everything was okay and that they
were ready to move as soon as it was dark enough.
     At last light we went straight up to the hide. As we started to pull it
apart, the lights of the houses were still on. It was so close I could  hear
a toilet being flushed.
     We  uncovered  an Aladdin's cave  of AK47s, shotguns,  small  hand-held
radios, and ammunition wrapped up in ski masks.
     Now all we had to do was wait for Rick and Eno.
     Time dragged on and on, and because of  the blind spot, we still had no
comms, even when we tried moving position.
     It was now coming up to about one o'clock. I started to get worried.
     It was  going to get fairly light come about four. By two o'clock still
nothing  had happened. We  made  a  plan:  At three  o'clock, if  no one had
reappeared, we'd have to block up the hide and bluff it.
     This was worrying. This was our second visit, and this time the weapons
ad been unwrapped. I didn't want to rush  replacing the hide if Rick and Eno
didn't turn up.
     By about twenty past two we didn't even need night viewing  aids  as we
watched the boys trogging up the hill.
     "The  fucking engine gave up  halfway  across!" Rick said.  "We've been
paddling like lunatics for the  last two  hours." Eno was by now  doing  his
job. His annoying personal trait of being so precise and neat made him ideal
for this type of work.
     "We've got to rush it," I said. "It's going to be light soon."
     "I've got theIR photography you took last light. You might as well look
at it; it's light enough." Dave 2 and I covered them as they got on with it.
It was  nearly daylight  when we  started putting the stuff back. Cocks were
crowing. By the time we finished and got back to the powerless Gemini it was
breakfast time and we had to paddle in broad daylight to meet the other boat
that had been sent to fetch us.
     My  tour  with  the  Det  finished  in late 1988.  When  I  came  back,
everything between Fiona and me was  different. I  didn't  know what it was,
whether  it  was because we'd spent  so much  time  apart, but  there was  a
definite air  of independence between us. It wasn't a case of me coming home
to Fiona and Kate; the way I was feeling it  was coming home to  Kate, which
was the wrong way around.
     Running up to Christmas, I went away on another job for a while, and it
was  as  if I'd never been at home. I yearned for Kate, the  product  of the
relationshi , rather
     than the relationship itself. Fiona an p
     d I didn't exactly row  about things, but there were times  when we sat
down and had to have some really serious  talks  about the direction we were
going. Both of  us  knew there were problems, but both of us thought that we
could work it out. However,  my priorities were  work, Kate,  Fiona, and she
probably sensed that.
     Eno  started  to have  a few problems with his  marriage,  too,  and it
eventually  broke up. Maybe it was the same in the police force or  the fire
brigade,  but  people  in  the  Regiment  always  seemed  to  be  divorcing,
remarrying, redivorcing, and always for the same reason. It took an enormous
amount of effort and dedication for a bloke  to have got where he was and to
stay there, and almost inevitably there was -a conflict.
     our of us were  sitting in a  Portakabin listening to the slime telling
us what was going on. Outside, the sun was shining, but it *asn't as hot  as
I'd expected for  this  part of the world.  All around us on the  walls were
maps, Magic Marker boards, and cork boards.
     The Int boy finished off by saying, "Well, that's it. I know you're not
going to ask  any questions, because it's a waste of time. I don't  know the
answers."
     "So basically we're going  to  do  something, but  we don't  know what,
where, when, or how. We just sit here and pick our arses, do we?"
     "Yeah, that's about the size of  it. Have  a look  at what  information
there  is on the board,  and we'll start  squaring it away  tomorrow. The  G
Squadron  blokes you're  taking  over  from  are away on  the ranges at  the
moment; they'll be back tomorrow."
     We had a quick look at the  pictures of the city and personalities, but
the faces  were  familiar,  enough,  and  at  this stage everybody  was more
interested in getting a few rays.
     We walked outside  onto  the pan in our jeans, T-shirts,  and trainers.
The sun was blinding.  On the  pan  were Chinooks and Pumas and a  couple of
aircrew mincing around on them.
     James, one of  the  team, said, "Not hot enough to sunbathe in, but all
right for a run."
     "Where to?" I said, looking at  the  barbed-wire fence  that surrounded
the location. "Talk about keeping the animals from straying."
     "One hundred fifty-two laps of that Portakabin, then," James said.
     "Come on, there's nothing else to do."
     We went back to the accommodation, another set of Portakabins.
     We'd dumped our kit on the beds as soon as we'd arrived an hour before,
then  gone straight to the briefing room.  I had a nylon Parabag and  bergen
containing all my equipment, the most important bit of which was my Walkman,
with  a  couple  of  self-compiled  tapes  of  Madness,  Sham  69, the  hymn
"Jerusalem"  from  Chariots of  Fire, and  a bit of  Elgar. I pulled open my
bergen and strewed everything all over the bed. Out fell my sleeping bag and
running kit.
     James and  I ran around the perimeter fence,  past Chinooks and aircrew
who were busy licking ice creams.
     As we turned one corner, I said, "Look at that!" Sitting  on the tarmac
about a hundred meters away was a bit  of machinery  that I knew existed but
had  never  seen: a long  black spy  plane  of the USAF, all  weirdly angled
surfaces  and very mean-looking.  I didn't know why, but  it somehow made me
feel more confident that our job Half an hour later we were having a shower,
then running around trying to  find out  where the aircrew had got their ice
creams.
     We had some scoff that night and sorted out our kit.
     We'd  been  told  to  bring  different types of civvy clothes  with us,
together with different types of body armor, overt and covert, to  cater for
every option. Among the four of us  we had M16s, a  couple of sniper rifles,
MP5s, MP5Ks, MB5SDs, and a couple of Welrod silenced pis would be on.
     386  tols; already on site  would  be different types of  explosives to
cover everything  from blowing a wall to taking  doors off.  We also had all
types of night-viewing aids, including passive night-viewing goggles that we
might  need  to wear  as  we were moving  in, and an infrared torch  for our
weapon, so  we could move along  without being  seen;  we still didn't  know
whether we'd  be wearing a pair of jeans and covert body armor and a pair of
trainers, or green military kit, or  going in with the full counterterrorist
black kit.
     Lat  item in the Parabag was  a day  sack, stuffed with hemacell plasma
substitute and "giving sets." If there were any major gunshot wounds, they'd
have to be managed and stabilized until we got back.
     Once  the kit was checked  we sat  down to  watch six  hours  of Fawlty
Towers on video.
     In the morning we read the papers, listened to the radio, watched a bit
of telly. There was simply nothing else to do. In the end we dragged some of
the plastic chairs outside and sat in the sun.
     About midmorning two wagons turned up,  and some blokes from G Squadron
started  piling out. They'd  been  down  to  the  ranges  doing  some  night
shooting. First one out was Tony, who I knew quite well.
     "Thank fuck you lot have turned up," he said.
     "I see, good job then, I take it?"
     "It's a bag of shit. No one knows what the fuck's going on.
     We've got two more days, I think, then you're taking over."
     "So you don't know anything?"
     "Only that we're here."
     All we knew was what the Int boy had told us. John  McCarthy  and Terry
Waite were hostages in Beirut, together with an Irishman called Brian Keenan
and countless Americans, and every agency, man, and dog in the Western world
was running around trying to find them.
     if any of them were found, including the Yanks, we were going to go and
lift them.
     We went and had a brew and I asked Tony, "Have you been over there?"
     "Yeah.  Boring as fuck-  There's a  couple of  boys  over there  at the
moment, in the embassy or consulate'or whatever. They're sorting out all the
LSs [landing sites], and they're the link between the  embassy  and us.  Any
information that's coming through, they're giving us a shout."
     "And have they sent anything?"
     "Jack shit. We're just running around like loonies at the moment.
     It's the normal thing. This time next  week  it'll  be binned,  bet you
anything. The  only positive thing i is that there's got to be something up;
otherwise they wouldn't have moved us here.)' "What's it like over there?"
     "Just like you've seen on the news, really. Buildings full of shrapnel,
piles  of rubble, loads of old Mercs. To be  honest, I didn't take that much
interest. I'll believe it when I see it on this one.
     I'll spark up when they find them and want us to go and do it.
     All it is is  another house assault. The only good thing so far is that
we've got free sunglasses out of it." He pulled out  some Ray 0 Bans and put
them on.
     "They're all right, aren't they?"
     "Freebies? How come?"
     "We were practicing this assault on the ranges, coming in on a Chinook.
The  idea  was we'd  come in near the building, and  as the heli  lands  the
tailgate  comes  down and we just pile  out' I and do  it-running  or in the
light strike vehicles. It's  al dark inside the Chinook,  of course. There's
twelve of us  sitting there with  belt  kit and body armor  on,  everybody's
carrying MP fives  and G  threes and all sorts. We were ready to start World
War Three.
     "The tailgate comes down, we run out  straight  into the sun, and-fuck!
We're blinded! We couldn't  see jack  shit. It was a live attack, and all we
heard was 'Stop!
     Stop!" Sean was going ApeShit. 'Stop! Unload!" We un 388
     loaded, and he said, 'What the fuck's going on?
     Fucking hell, call  yourselves  Special Air Service soldiers?"  'But we
can't see fuck all!" We'd missed all the targets. So  the pilot saunters  up
and says,  'Well, you've just come out of a dark aircraft, haven't you,  you
dickheads?" We ended up being given aviator glasses.
     Mind you, we had a honk."
     "Why's that?"
     "Ray - Bans. We wanted Oakley Blades."
     What Tony was saying reflected the attitude on a lot of jobs, which was
very downbeat. We were going to do a house assault in Beirut  and bring home
the  bacon. So  what? It was pointless getting excited or concerned until we
found  out what was  going on and where they were-if they  were still alive.
Nobody had even confirmed that much. So no one was hyper, running around and
screaming: "We've got to do this, we've got to save the  hostages." When the
job happened, the job happened.
     All  the principles were  exactly  the  same  as for  any  other  house
assault. Only the area was different, and it was in  a hostile  environment.
Again, so what? We'd got  guns, we'd got the aptitude  and  the attitude, we
had body armor, and we had aircraft-what more could we ask for?
     G Squadron disappeared for the rest of the day. Sean got the four of us
together and said, "We're going  to have this trickle  system going through.
You four from B Squadron  will take over, and in  two days'  time we'll send
back four from  G Squadron  and  just have a gentle tick-over  so we've  got
continuity  on  the  ground.  The  score's  the same  as  normal. You're  in
isolation, and you stay here. Mail can come in and out every day, you've got
phone calls, and there'll be  a run to the market every morning for soap and
shit."
     "What about the aircrew? Where are they?"
     "The aircrew are staying downtown in a hotel.' "Ah, lovely," we honked.
It was always  the same; we'd be  in isolation, but the aircrew, who knew as
much as we did, were put up in hotels or messes.
     I turned to James and said, "Please do not feed the animals."
     That was  it  for  the day. There was  a little multigym  to fuck about
with, but we soon  got bored with  that.  I sat on  my bed listening to  the
Walkman  and  reading  the  paper;  then  I wrote a  letter  home to  Fiona.
"Hopefully that insurance claim will come through," I said.
     "Just go ahead and  get what color you like." We'd tipped some paint on
the kitchen carpet, and I'd only got around to doing  the claim form the day
before I left. "PS: I promise I'll fix that leak in the roof."
     Every time I got organized to do the repair, I'd been called away.
     It had become a standing joke.
     Next morning everybody was got together in the briefing room.
     Tony  was given the good news that he  wasn't going back; his four were
staying,  and another four of G  Squadron were  sent home. It was  funny, it
always seemed  that we  took  over something that G Squadron had  initiated.
Still, it was a good  chance  to  take  the piss  out  of them for being  so
incompetent that they had to be replaced.
     A television  set and video machine had been set up on a table  in  one
corner. The  slime stood up and said, "This is a video run of possible areas
in Beirut where these people  might be held.  Nothing's confirmed, but these
are the general areas so you can orientate yourselves a bit."
     He  started  to run the videotape, which had come from  the guys on the
ground in Beirut. They'd been looking at the areas, driving them and walking
them. They were taking photographs and doing video runs with covert cameras,
looking at landing sites in and around  possible  targets, and security-both
building -wise and physically, with guards.
     They even studied the state of the traffic outside. Was it busy, was it
quiet,  were there little side streets? Was there a good escape route in and
out?
     They'd rigged up a camera in a van and driven around the areas.
     The  place was in shit state.  The  video  was  bouncing  up and  down,
occasionally  showing  a  glimpse  of  a  dirty windscreen. It  looked  like
something out of a World in Action report.
     There's quite a skill to operating undercover  in an urban environment.
It's a matter of trying to  do normal  things,  while working to a different
agenda; how  you do this will vary according to the climate, prosperity, and
traditions of  the country  you are operating in. A large city like Cairo or
Bangkok  is  an  anonymous  place  with a  large population  of  floaters or
drifters