A Breed of Heroes (18 page)

Tony followed the first of these performances with interest. ‘That’s the stuff. Keep your arse down. You won’t be spending much time there anyway, so it shouldn’t be much
of a problem. This is the first time I’ve been in bed before two since we got here. CO must be tired.’

Routine at battalion HQ turned out to be even more tiring than that in the companies. The hours were much the same but there was no patrolling to break the monotony. Because it was battalion HQ
no one felt he could do anything safely, even though everyone would have benefited from more sleep, and so people sat at their desks or radios long after there was any need. The CO drove himself
mercilessly and none of the officers felt justified in going to bed before he did. Just as he would probably not have noticed if they had, and would probably not have criticised them for doing so,
so he did not notice that they were waiting upon him.

Sharing the adjutant’s office gave Charles a different view of the workings of the battalion to that which he had seen so far. People in the companies tended to feel, consciously or not,
that battalion HQ existed in order to support them. How well or badly they thought it did this varied from day to day, though at its best it was never regarded as being any better than it ought to
be and usually it fell far short. The point was, they were in the front line, hence they were the centre of the world and everything else was eccentric. In battalion HQ, however, everyone was quite
clear that this was where the war was really being waged, and that the companies were, at their best, merely an extension of battalion HQ’s will and at other times selfish, myopic irritants
who had to be coped with along with the lunacies of battalion HQ’s other major problem. Brigade. At their worst the companies were thought to be a greater nuisance than the enemy, whoever he
might be. Brigade was seen as a support organisation, usually inadequate and interfering, overstaffed and safe from all danger.

Fortunately, Colin Wood was an easy man to get on with. He had a quiet, wry humour and time for everyone. The only signs of the pressure he worked under – much of it caused by the
administrative quirks of the CO – was that he smoked about sixty cigarettes a day and looked unnaturally pale. Charles, if he were free from his own work, would often help him out. After a
while Colin became quite forthcoming about the CO, the company commanders, battalion rivalries and Brigade matters, but more often than not he had little time for small-talk. One evening the
telephone they shared went out of order and Charles speculated that, with luck, it had succumbed to a telephonic disease that might spread to all the other phones in the building and give everyone
a peaceful night. ‘It might even drive the CO to drink and despair,’ he said.

Colin shook his head. ‘It might drive him to all sorts of places but not to drink. He never gets drunk. He gets merry, tipsy now and again, but he never has that much and he never gets
really drunk. He likes the good cheer, but that’s all.’

‘I’ve never noticed,’ said Charles. ‘I mean, he often has a glass in his hand and you can see it in his eyes when he’s had a few. I admit I’ve never seen him
properly drunk.’

Colin leant back in his chair, balancing on the two rear legs with the back of his head against the wall. He lit a cigarette. ‘His father was a doctor in Leeds, an alcoholic, and I think
he gave the family a hard time. Eventually he left – ran off with another woman, I think – and died in Newcastle. The CO was brought up by his mother in much reduced circumstances and
he was put through school by an uncle. He had a younger brother who died when he was very young – about four or five – and for some reason he always seemed to blame his father for that.
After he’d joined the Army he paid back his uncle every penny of his education. He wanted to go to art school really but couldn’t afford it, and his mother, who was a very strict
Methodist, for some reason didn’t approve anyway. She died last year.’

‘How d’you know all this?’ asked Charles.

‘His wife told me. He never talks about it himself. You know one of their children is a spastic?’

Charles shook his head.

‘Named Raymond after the brother who died. Children are the CO’s soft spot. Any soldier who says his wife’s having a baby can get all the leave he wants.’

‘It’s hard to imagine him at art school,’ said Charles.

‘I suppose it is now. You don’t know what he was like then, of course. He has four pet hates now – adulterers, or anyone who’s even reasonably promiscuous, drunkards,
people who don’t pay their debts and anyone who’s unkind to children. He thinks journalists are the first three anyway so don’t whatever you do introduce him to a child-beating
one.’

‘I’ll look out for that,’ said Charles.

In fact, his first substantial contact with the press was with the man called Beazely, against whom Philip Lamb had specifically warned him. Beazely rang, identified himself and invited Charles
to dinner in his hotel that evening. Philip Lamb had not led him to expect such treatment as this, and he did not know whether he was allowed to accept. The adjutant referred him to the CO who
agreed, saying, ‘On condition you carry.’

‘Sir?’

‘Bertie.’

‘Bertie, sir?’

‘Bertie Browning, for God’s sake. Where’ve you just come from, Charles, the nursery? You’re not at university now, you know. Carry your Browning nine-millimetre pistol.
Wear a shoulder-holster. You’ve worn one before. I don’t want my officers shot in the back over dinner.’

Beazely was in the Europa, the large modern hotel in the city centre. It paid no protection money to the IRA and so was elaborately fortified by wire, lights and security guards. It had been the
target of several bombing attempts, one or two partially successful, but was still used by many of the press. Charles was dropped outside by Land-Rover, which made him feel unpleasantly
conspicuous, and at first he could not see his way through the defences to the entrance. When with Janet he had not even attempted them. In fact, an uninformed observer would have been hard put to
tell whether the wire and corrugated iron were meant to keep intruders out or guests in. However, this time Charles was elated to be in civilian clothes. He felt quite different – not normal,
but at least he could begin to remember what it might be like to feel normal. Of course, the discomfort of his shoulder-holster would have prevented him from going too far in that direction.
Instead of nestling snugly under his arm, as they appeared to do in all the films, the bulky Browning pressed heavily against his ribs and bulged awkwardly beneath his jacket. For all the defences
around the hotel, the body search was cursory and he did not have to explain anything.

Beazely was bloated, bespectacled and friendly. He had a red face and a mop of brown hair which straggled over his ears and collar. A large signet ring was squeezed on to his podgy third finger
and the half-smoked cigarette in his other hand looked just as permanent. His manner was both impersonal and intimate. His handshake was limp and wet. ‘Glad to meet you, Charlie.
What’ll it be?’

‘Lager, please.’

Beazely ordered two double whiskies. ‘What’s happened to the other bloke – Phil thingie?’

‘He was shot.’

‘Christ, that’s going a bit far. Badly?’

‘No, in the foot.’ Charles had decided to spare the details partly for Philip’s sake and partly out of latent regimental pride.

‘He should’ve rung me. He promised he would if anything happened in your area. I could’ve done a piece on it. He could’ve been a hero. I hope you won’t forget if
you get mixed up in anything interesting. Cheers.’

‘The incident was filmed. There was a camera crew there.’

‘Was there? Can’t compete with that. The old steam press has its limitations, you know. At least where that sort of thing is concerned. Same again?’

Beazely either ignored or genuinely did not hear Charles’s protest. ‘We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, Charlie, because I do a lot of Army stuff, you see. You scratch my
back and I scratch yours. We can be very useful to each other. That’s the way me and Phil worked it, anyway. Cheers.’ Beazely swallowed with a practised gulp. Charles edged his
barely-sipped first drink out of sight with his elbow and raised his second. Twenty minutes later there were four more lined up on the bar, filled to varying levels. Charles was vividly aware of
details of his surroundings, such as the closeness of Beazely’s sweating red face and the prodding of Beazely’s fat forefinger, but felt pleasantly detached and remote.

Beazely was swaying backwards and forwards very slightly and talking all the time, his words accompanied by a liberal sprinkling of saliva. ‘The root of the problem is sex, of course.
That’s the answer to the Irish question, only no one ever asked it properly. The men booze and so the women don’t bother. The women are hags and so the men booze. It’s the same
throughout working-class Belfast, East or West, Loyalist or Republican. Beating each other up on a Friday night is about the closest they ever get to communicating, some of them. Nothing for them
at home or in bed and so they go outside for their kicks, and there’s your violent society. If the men knew how to make love and the women had enough self-respect to make themselves desirable
it would be a different place, believe me. Balanced, fulfilled, sane, you know. As it is, the divisions in the society as a whole reflect the brutalities and animosities at home. You’ve only
got to look at the kids. Old faces on young bodies. They scare me as much as anything.’ The sweat on Beazely’s face was mingling with tears. He put his hand on Charles’s shoulder
and drew closer still. Charles was distantly aware of laying his hand on Beazely’s arm in comradely fashion. He was not aware of speaking.

‘Be honest with you, Charlie, straight up. It bloody terrifies me. All of it. I’d rather go back to London and do accidents or gardening or any damn thing but they won’t let
me. Keep on about what a great job I’m doing. Great job, my arse. They can’t get anyone else to do it, that’s all. Won’t ever let me write what I want, you know, what
I’ve just been talking about. They want hard news all the time. There’s enough hard news in the world without all this. Christ, I’d rather do the chess reports.’

He took off his glasses and, blinking, wiped his eyes upon his sleeve. ‘Main reason I do a lot with the Army is because I’d rather talk to them than to the terrorists. Gives me the
creeps just to go in the bad areas. All right for the likes of Jason Kyle and his rag, hobnobbing with the IRA all the time and proud of it. Me, I’m not proud of anything. Not ashamed either.
What’s more, I like the Army. Good blokes, know what I mean? Not always too bright, but you can trust ’em. Straight up, like yourself. No messing about. And they don’t chuck bombs
around. You and me will make a great team, Charlie, I can see it coming. Two more, please.’

Dinner passed. Charles was not sure how. He remembered going into the dining room and ordering. He knew he had eaten but could not recall whether it was a good meal or whether he just remembered
someone – himself or Beazely – saying that it was. There had been an awful lot of talk, mostly, he thought, from Beazely. He clearly remembered leaving the hotel because Beazely had
fallen in the reception area after shaking hands. He was glassy-eyed and feeling slightly sick when he returned to battalion HQ. There had been wine with the meal and something afterwards. Even on
quiet nights no one in battalion HQ went to bed before two but, finding that neither his absence was commented upon nor his presence noticed, Charles crept away. He undressed slowly and made
careful note of where he put everything. He did not put on the light. There was a moment of sheer panic, a draining, despairing, almost tearful moment, when he thought he had lost his pistol; but
then he found it in the place in the bed where one would normally put a hot-water bottle. He passed an uncomfortable night.

Sitting at his desk in Colin Wood’s office the next morning Charles feebly pretended to be busy. He copied Philip Lamb’s list of names and telephone numbers from one book to another,
then kept both. Philip had also established a card index and Charles sorted it twice without altering it. He drank several cups of instant coffee, without tasting any of it, which was probably an
advantage. Fortunately, the adjutant really was busy and had no time to notice anyone else. There were, however, two telephone calls for him. The first was from an unknown major at the PR desk at
Headquarters, telling him that he should come up for a briefing, saying that they would all be delighted to see him and adding that, before they ‘went firm’ on anything, could he help
out a TV team that afternoon. They wanted to do a feature on how soldiers spent their off-duty time. Charles asked the CO, who said, ‘All right, so long as they don’t take up more than
half an hour of the Ackies’ kipping time and so long as they don’t interview anyone. I hold you responsible.’ Charles then rang Edward, who said that the Factory was full enough
already without half of Hollywood swarming all over it, but agreed to put a dozen soldiers at the film crew’s disposal when Charles implied that the CO was keen on the idea.

The second call sounded at first like savage interference on a waterlogged line. After a while it became clear that a human being was responsible for the noise and a little while after that
Charles distinguished the word Beazely. He greeted him with barely more enthusiasm than he felt. There was more crackling, during which he distinguished the word helicopter. A minute or so of
questions and answers established that Beazely believed he had been promised a ride over Belfast in a helicopter. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t any helicopters,’ said Charles.

‘Not you, Charlie, the Army. They’ve got plenty. Use one of theirs.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

Charles snatched at the nearest reason. ‘They don’t do low-level flights over the city.’

‘One went right past my window this morning. Woke me up.’

‘They must have been looking for a car or something. They only do it then.’ It did not sound very convincing. Weariness lessened Charles’s scruples. ‘Anyway, all the
helicopters are on border patrol duty today.’