A Breed of Heroes (25 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want no bad publicity, no allegations. I shall hold you personally responsible. Go and fix it.’

With the help of Van Horne, Charles was able to round up all the press in sight and move them back up to near the Pigs. This was not easy since although some were only too ready to be organised
at the mention of shooting, there were others who considered that their neutrality was being threatened. They saw themselves as having a special position in relation to any conflict and resented
attempts to direct or control them. Van Horne suggested that it should be left for the bullets to decide. By exposing himself to what he considered dangerous risk, Charles was able to round up all
the remaining obstinate cameramen save one. He had not seen this man but was told he had wedged himself between the leading Ferret and the wall of a house. He was a particularly adept and justly
renowned BBC man. From his position he was able to use the lights of the Ferret for filming and he could see all of what was being thrown, especially as much of it was aimed at the scout car.
Charles was about to dash across the road to him when the CO’s voice boomed over the megaphone: ‘Stop bombing. If you do not stop bombing we shall open fire. I repeat: if you do not
stop we shall open fire.’ The response was a shower of nail bombs which seemed to shake the street, and then a lull.

Charles ran across the road behind the Ferret and worked his way forward along the wall. The part of the street that was shown in the glare of the lights seemed to be strewn with enough rubble
to build a house. Out of the range of the lights it was just possible to see figures moving. The cameraman really was wedged between the Ferret and the wall. Charles had to move sideways to get up
to him. If the Ferret were to move they would both be crushed. The crew probably did not know they were there. The CO repeated his announcement as Charles tugged at the man’s jacket. The man
looked round and Charles beckoned to him. To his relief, he started to edge his way back.

‘What is it?’

‘Shooting. They’re going to open fire.’ They had to raise their voices above the noise of the Ferret’s engine. Once out from behind it they began to move back up the
street, keeping close to the wall. On the other side of the street a sniper had moved forward to a new position. He crouched, nursing his rifle and gazing quietly before him. The cameraman stopped
to film him but Charles pushed him on. There was a flash and a crashing explosion that, despite its loudness, seemed more of a crump than a bang. It left Charles’s ears ringing. The cameraman
had stopped but Charles pushed him on again. There was another flash and crump, followed this time by a fiendish whining sound. The whole street seemed to be ringing. As though from a great
distance Charles heard the CO’s megaphone repeating, ‘Aim low. Aim low.’ He clutched the cameraman by the jacket again and they both crouched where they were.

The marksman opposite went about his work with patience and concentration. He raised his rifle and aimed for what seemed a long time before the barrel jerked sharply upwards and there was a
crack, a sharper and more incisive sound than the bangs made by the rubber-bullet guns. The marksman fired three times, the empty cases pinging on to the pavement after each shot. Other marksmen
had also fired but there were less than ten shots in all. The bombing had stopped but the CO’s voice was still saying, ‘Aim low. Aim low.’

They waited for some time but nothing happened. The cameraman, indefatigable as ever, had tried to film the marksman but there was not enough light. Charles rested his hand on the butt of his
pistol, which was still in its holster. All the tension had gone from the street. They could sense that the other end, dark and quiet, was deserted. Nothing moved in the floodlit middle but at the
top both soldiers and press were impatient to be allowed forward, waiting for the CO to give the word. Charles reflected that the whole scene would have made more impact on film than in the flesh,
as it now seemed mundane and even a little tedious – though that could have been a reaction to previous nervousness. Both he and his charge then moved carefully up to the top of the street.
The CO and his group were still behind the Pigs. A company’s commander held something in the palm of his hand which they were all looking at and which several of the press had photographed.
When he saw Charles the CO took the object, a lump of metal, and showed it to him. ‘See that? Know what it is?’

Charles looked at it, convinced that he ought to know but utterly at a loss. ‘No, sir.’

‘Well, you bloody well should do. It’s the base plug from a number thirty-six hand-grenade, as any private soldier will tell you. It missed your head by about half an inch. These
things can kill at great distances on concrete. Two of them were thrown at you when you were chasing some bloody fool pressman who should’ve known better round and round the Ferret.
It’s a miracle you’re alive. It’s a miracle no one else was injured. I can’t understand why you aren’t dead. Didn’t you realise what was happening?’

Charles took the proffered lump of metal. It was heavier than it looked. ‘I heard the bangs, sir,’ he said lamely.

‘You should be dead. You ought to be dead. Anyone else would be.’ The CO sounded annoyed but as he turned away he gripped Charles’s arm in a comradely fashion and said in an
undertone, ‘You did a brave thing, foolish or not. Well done. It won’t be forgotten.’

Charles pocketed the little lump of metal. He was not sure what it was that he was supposed to have done but he rather hoped that it would be forgotten, in case he were called upon to do it
again.

The reason for not advancing down the street immediately was apparently to give the bombers time to retreat. The CO did not want a shoot-out in front of the houses. It would also give time for
the Knights of Malta, the voluntary ambulance service which assisted the IRA, to take the wounded away, if there were any, but that could not be helped. Eventually the CO allowed the Ferret to
creep forward, which it did with its Browning swinging ominously from side to side. Its mobile spotlight flickered along the walls, reflected dazzlingly by those windows that were still whole.
Parts of the walls and the road were blackened by flame and its wheels crushed the glass that lay everywhere with a continuous crackle. The CO and his party followed on foot behind it, Charles with
them. He had been told to keep the press back, which task he had delegated to Van Horne while he went forward to check that the area was clear before they were allowed down. Soon the Ferret’s
lights lit up the end of the street. It was as littered as the rest but the row of houses across the bottom looked undamaged. The spotlight danced into the corners on either side but there was no
movement. The Ferret suddenly accelerated and stopped as it reached the end, but all was deserted. The only sounds were the purring of the Ferret’s engine and the gentle crushing of glass
beneath the boots of those following it. The road forming the T of the junction dwindled into alleyways on each side and in both there was a number of unbroken bottles intended as petrol bombs.
Charles noticed that the CO had drawn and cocked his pistol and so he drew his own, but did not trust himself to cock it. The chances of an accidental discharge were, he felt, greater now than the
chances of being shot, and the results would be almost as unpleasant. For a few moments everyone paused and there was almost a sense of peace. It began to rain again.

‘Someone died here,’ said the CO, shining his torch into a puddle. ‘We hit three for certain. This was probably the one who lost the top of his head.’

It was a large pool of blood, dark and still. It was three feet or more across. For a moment Charles could think of nothing but Lady Macbeth’s, ‘Yet who would have thought the old
man to have had so much blood in him?’ Then, following the light of the CO’s torch, he saw there were six pools in all as well as trails of blood leading into the alleyways. Soldiers
were sent to search the alleyways but nothing was found.

More blood was splashed on the window-sill of one of the houses, and there was what looked like a bullet-hole in its front door. ‘Exactly what I was worried about,’ said the CO,
pointing to the hole and turning to lecture his audience. ‘This very thing. These poor people have their houses used as firing butts. God, I hope we haven’t hit anyone. They do it
deliberately, you know, these thugs, because they think we won’t open fire. Not that it worries them if we do. They don’t care if we kill fifty innocent people. In fact, they prefer it.
It’s good publicity for them. Words fail me, gentlemen.’ He turned to the RSM. ‘Knock them up, Mr Bone. It’s the very least we can do.’

The RSM began a prolonged and loud knocking on the door, a task in which he clearly found fulfilment, and it was eventually opened by a hard-faced but frightened-looking woman of about thirty.
She had mouse-brown hair, at which she kept tugging, and staring brown eyes which she at first shielded against the glare of the lights. The CO introduced himself with a formal and old-world
courtesy, which obviously baffled her, and apologised for the disturbance. He even saluted and Charles thought for one brief moment that he was going to order everyone to salute. ‘Is everyone
in your house all right?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘No one is injured?’

‘No.’

Her manner was sullen and resentful but the CO’s courtesy, once decided upon, was invincible. ‘The reason I ask, madam, is that a bullet probably fired by one of my soldiers, on my
orders, looks as though it has gone through your door here. I was worried in case anyone had been injured and I may say I’m profoundly relieved to hear that no one has. The order to open fire
is not one that comes lightly or easily in such a situation, believe me. I hope you understand that.’ She tugged at her hair and said nothing. ‘There is the question of compensation. If
you will permit us to enter and trace the path of the bullet we will make a note of the damage and I personally will see that you are properly compensated.’

The mention of compensation cheered her up and during the search for the bullet’s path she became almost loquacious on the matter of damage. The bullet had passed through the door and then
through the living-room wall behind it and then into the kitchen wall, where it was embedded. The woman and her three young children had been hiding in an upstairs back bedroom. She was asked
several times where her husband was but she just shook her head and said, ‘Dunno.’

When the inspection was complete, the CO grabbed Charles by the shoulder again. ‘This young officer is Charles Thoroughgood. He is my public relations officer and my community relations
officer, which means he deals with complaints. If you make a list of damage similar to the one we have made and bring it with you to our headquarters, along with an estimate for repairs, Charles
Thoroughgood will see that you get it. All right?’ The woman nodded and glanced mistrustfully at Charles. ‘His telephone number is – what’s your telephone number?’
Charles told her. ‘You can ring or come and see him at any hour of the day or night and he will help you. That’s what he’s there for. He sits on the end of the telephone waiting
to help people. Any time you want anything at all just ask for Lieutenant Thoroughgood.’

Three days earlier, at prayers, the CO had warned everyone against revealing their names, telephone numbers or any other details to people who might pass them on to the IRA. As they left the
house he turned to Charles and said, ‘My heart goes out to these poor people, you know. They’ve got no choice, you see. They live here and they can’t afford to stand up against
the thugs, especially if they’ve got children. It’s more than their lives are worth. We should always bear that in mind when dealing with them.’

After Charles had reminded the CO of their existence, the press were allowed down to the bottom of the street. For two or three minutes they filmed and photographed the blood enthusiastically,
illuminating it with flashbulbs and very bright hand-held lights. There was speculation about the number hit but all Charles was able to tell them was what the CO had told him. After he had done
this he realised he had been standing in a puddle of blood that had started to go sticky, as he could feel it on the soles of his boots. There were more requests to interview the CO. Charles found
him searching for more bullet-holes. ‘They want to interview you, sir.’

‘I’ve got better things to do. Keep them out of my hair. That’s what you’re supposed to be here for. Let them interview you.’

‘They want you, sir, because it was you that gave the order to open fire.’

‘What do they want, blood?’ The CO seemed genuinely angry and then sighed. ‘All right, I suppose I’d better. It’s all part of the job these days. God, how I hate a
press war. Bring ’em round.’

Charles feared that in his present state any remotely hostile questioning might produce an angry reaction from the CO. ‘It would be better to do it back at battalion HQ, sir.’

‘Why? Why not here? Scene of the action and all that stuff, that’s what they like, isn’t it?’

Charles thought quickly. ‘It’s much better back there for all their equipment – for the filming. They can set their lights and things up properly.’

‘All right. You’re the expert.’

Charles announced that there would be a press conference back at battalion HQ and most of the press headed gratefully off, though some left to meet deadlines for the early editions. Farther up
the street Scoopy-do was at work again, dragging the carcass of the bus off to some wasteland on the other side of the Falls where the carcasses of all sorts of vehicles rotted after previous
riots. The metal squealed as it scraped against tarmac and brick; otherwise, the city seemed dead. The CO and his Rover Group left with an unnecessary revving of engines but Charles, having
arranged a lift with one of the other vehicles, lingered on for a few minutes. It was raining steadily now, big drops that splashed in the puddles, diluting and washing away the blood. A few
soldiers were left to finish the search and the street glistened in the lights of the waiting Pig. The only sounds now were of occasional vehicles in the distance and the steady, soothing patter of
the rain. After the excitement and noise the calm seemed correspondingly deeper. Everyone moved carefully and talked in undertones, as though in the presence of the dead. When someone kicked a
brick which bounced with a clang off the side of the Pig the corporal in charge swore angrily at the offending soldier.