A Breed of Heroes (27 page)

The CO was pointing at McColm by the time he had finished, his teeth clenched, his face red and his finger shaking. The cameras were still going and a couple of microphones were discreetly held
at table-level. McColm was still lounging in his chair but his face had paled and hardened with self-consciousness. Seeing that he was about to speak, Charles got to his feet. Everyone looked at
him and for what seemed a long moment he could think of nothing to say. He thought of Manningtree, his tutor, who had a habit of ending more than usually boring tutorials somewhat abruptly.
‘Gentlemen, we called this conference in order to discuss matters of fact, not the ethics of violence. If you have no more questions we shall consider it closed.’

To his great relief there was a general scraping and shuffling of chairs and a growing murmur. People started to move towards the door and the TV men again began packing up their equipment.
McColm was one of the first out, saying nothing to anyone. As the London
Times
man – a kindly-looking, avuncular figure – left he raised his bushy eyebrows at the CO and Charles.
‘Still get complaints if they issued you with peashooters,’ he grunted.

When they had gone the CO sat down, resting his head in one hand. When he looked up at Charles his face was very weary and his eyes dull. ‘Sorry, Charles, I blew my top,’ he said
quietly. ‘Let you down. Let us all down. A CO should never do that in public.’ He stood and stamped his feet, with an effort at cheerfulness. ‘Glad you stopped it when you did.
You were splendid. God only knows what I’d have said if I’d gone on. Has it done any harm, d’you think?’

Charles was embarrassed by the CO’s humility, as though by his mere presence he was taking advantage of it. ‘I don’t think so, sir. There was nothing politically unwise. I
don’t see why it should.’

‘Good. Well, we’ll see. Bloody press. Get me a whisky, will you?’ Charles went to the drinks tray, poured a large whisky and gave it to him. He took it rather gruffly.
‘You know I don’t drink alone. Get one yourself. Fine state of affairs when a CO has to order his own officers to drink with him.’

Later, Charles found Van Horne in his office. He had attended the conference, standing at the back, and had shown all the press out. The corners of his mouth showed the merest beginnings of a
smile. ‘That bloke dropped a right bollock in front of the CO, didn’t he, sir?’

‘Something like that.’

‘If he hadn’t been a civvy the CO would’ve had his guts for garters.’

‘I thought for a moment he was going to, anyway.’

Beazely telephoned, asking what had happened at the conference. Charles resisted his first impulse and gave him a boring and doctored account, to make sure that at least one daily did not splash
the CO’s anger all over the front page. He then rang the PR desk at Headquarters to tell them what had happened but instead spent most of his time trying to convince them that the major they
had sent to assist him at nine o’clock this evening, without telling anyone, had never arrived. With the facetiousness that sometimes comes with tiredness, Charles suggested that he might
have found a better story on the way but the suggestion was taken literally and without humour. It was one of a number of options. Others were that he had either been killed or kidnapped. An
enquiry was to be started. To those on the streets Headquarters was a remote world and what happened there was a matter of indifference or at best ridicule, unless it directly affected them. It was
gone four in the morning and Charles felt no compunction about leaving them to it.

T
he post did not arrive in battalion HQ until late afternoon as it had to be collected from Headquarters by the diminutive post corporal and his
escort of two Land-Rovers. It had been late the previous day and by the time it came Charles had no time to collect his because of the trouble. He got it before breakfast the following morning.
Those mornings were the most leisurely part of the day because the rioters and terrorists had little enthusiasm for rising early. The CO had remarked several times that it would be the best time to
carry out a shooting attack on the Army because people were least on their guard then. The mornings were also the time when it was possible to get within sight of that lost world in Army life,
privacy. There were no rules about breakfast, and anyone could simply get up and eat roughly six hours after whatever time he had been lucky enough to get to bed, and at the appropriate time
breakfast merged painlessly into lunch. There were no papers that morning, which was not unusual because they sometimes arrived late. It was something to be thankful for, in that the CO could not
have seen them either. In the meantime, the reading of letters would provide an effective barrier against Nigel Beale, who was sometimes inclined to talk over breakfast.

However, Charles did not need the barrier that morning. In fact, he did not get a chance to use it. Nigel and Tony Watch were at breakfast when he arrived and, there being no papers, Nigel was
particularly chirpy. He was claiming to have predicted the previous day’s trouble.

‘Well, I didn’t hear you,’ said Tony.

‘Pay attention in the briefings.’

‘I do. You never said there was going to be trouble yesterday.’

‘Maybe I didn’t say it was going to be yesterday in the briefing. You don’t hear everything there, you know. There’s a lot of need-to-know stuff that I brief the CO on
personally.’

‘How come he didn’t know about it, then?’

‘What makes you think he didn’t?’ Nigel shoved a forkful of egg, bacon, fried bread and tinned tomato into his mouth and munched aggressively. Charles was helping himself from
the hot-plates when Anthony Hamilton-Smith arrived and did the same. Anthony never spoke to anyone at breakfast. He always read
The Times
, beginning with the back page, and when there was no
paper he simply ate and stared as though there was no one else in the room. He gave the impression of a great solitude, as of one who had renounced the world, and if he were ever forced to
acknowledge other people – such as by having to ask for the marmalade – he did so in a way that made them feel he had never seen them before and had no wish to again. He usually began
to be more sociable within about an hour of breakfast, and by the time of his lunchtime gin and tonic he was spritely and cheerful. On this morning he and Charles executed a kind of ritual dance
around the hot-plates, based on unspoken principles of fairness, temporal priority and the respect due to rank and age. Each came away with what he required and sat down with the other two without
speaking. Unfortunately, the table was small.

‘Anyway,’ continued Tony Watch. ‘What makes you think it was the Provisionals that organised it? How d’you know it wasn’t the Stickies?’

‘The who?’ Nigel’s mouth was still full and his cheeks bulged.

‘The Stickies,’ repeated Tony irritably.

Nigel swallowed. ‘Who the hell are they when they’re at home?’

‘The Stickies? Don’t you know who the Stickies are?’ Tony’s plump face showed a mixture of triumph and genuine surprise. ‘The Stickies are the official IRA. I
thought everyone knew that. It’s common knowledge.’

‘Not to me it isn’t.’

‘The CO knows.’

‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Well, don’t look at me. You’re supposed to be the Intelligence officer. Go and ask the first Ackie you meet. He’ll tell you who the Stickies are.’

‘Sounds bloody unlikely to me,’ said Nigel. He looked disgruntled and uncertain.

Without a word to anyone, Anthony got up from the table, walked over to the hat rack, put on a black beret, taking care to adjust it neatly with the badge in line with the left eye and the brim
an inch above the eyebrow, returned to the table, sat down and continued calmly with his breakfast. Nigel and Tony forgot their argument for a while and stared at him, but neither ventured to say
anything. Charles was careful not to stare but could not help glancing several times, surreptitiously. Anthony ate solemnly and silently, as though wearing a beret was as much a part of the
breakfast ritual as food. He supposed it was Anthony’s way of indicating his disapproval of the conversation and admired him for it, though without following the logic of the act. He decided
to postpone opening his letters until he had finished eating. He did not want Anthony to feel obliged to get up and put on his overcoat.

Nigel Beale was less sensitive, being one of those people who do not seek to enquire after the causes of odd behaviour in others. What interested him was the problem in hand. He put his knife
and fork down and pushed his plate away. ‘So why are they called Stickies?’ he asked Tony. ‘If they are, that is.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Tony. ‘Go and ask them. Or get Charles here to ask the press for you. They’ll know.’

Anthony put his cup into his saucer with a noise as decisive as an auctioneer’s hammer. ‘Stickies,’ he said with chilling precision, ‘is the name by which the official
IRA have been known since one Easter a few years ago when they departed from Republican tradition by sticking their Easter lilies to themselves rather than pinning them. As an Intelligence officer
you should know the regimental history and traditions of your enemy.’ He sipped his tea, almost demurely, and then looked again at Nigel. ‘And as an officer you should also know that
talking at breakfast is not a habit that is encouraged in the British Army, especially talking shop. It’s unfortunate that it’s allowed at all. In some regiments it is not, while in my
father’s regiment, the wearing of head-dress at a meal indicated that the wearer did not wish to be spoken to. Indeed, it was considered polite not to speak in his presence. That is a custom
we would do well to adopt.’ Anthony then got up and took his tea to an armchair, where he sat and sipped calmly, still wearing his beret.

Tony Watch raised his eyebrows and smiled at Charles. Nigel Beale looked as though he were about to reply, played for a few moments with his teaspoon, then got up and walked out without looking
at anyone. Tony soon left and Charles went and sat with his coffee and letters in the armchair opposite Anthony. The silence continued for some moments until Anthony looked up.
‘Charles.’

To his surprise, a slight smile played upon Anthony’s features. ‘Yes, Anthony?’

‘I think I may have started a regimental tradition.’

‘I hope you have, Anthony,’ said Charles, sincerely.

Still smiling, Anthony took off his beret. His triumph seemed to have made him light-hearted and almost loquacious, for the time of day. ‘Should shut young Beale up for a bit,’ he
said. ‘I’m very pleased he left when he did, though. This beret ain’t mine. Tight at the band. Must belong to some pin-head. Thought I was in danger of passing out and spoiling
the effect. Mine’s upstairs.’

Charles laughed. ‘It did the job anyway.’

Anthony stood and stretched. ‘Just goes to show,’ he said, mysteriously. He put the beret back on its peg on his way out of the Mess. ‘Have a good day, old boy.’

‘And you, Anthony.’ Charles turned at last to his letters. There was a postcard from Janet, posted in York, where she had been for the weekend. She did not say with whom. One of the
other letters was from Regimental Headquarters asking for subscriptions and the other was from the Retirements Board saying that he could be released from the Army on repayment of one thousand
pounds. The earliest date was the day after the battalion’s return from Ireland, by which time he would have to have paid the money. He was not entitled to terminal leave nor to the normal
gratuity. A copy of the letter was being sent to the CO.

Charles had had no idea that it could be so easy. Pessimism had set in after he had sent his letter and the recent busyness had pushed to the back of his mind all thoughts about resignation, but
now the knowledge that he could be out of the Army in two months shook the sleep out of him and made even his present surroundings seem almost pleasant. He rose from the table and poured himself
another coffee with the delight in detail of one who sees for the first time. His boots, his beret, his heavy wool jersey could all be viewed now with affection, rather than sickening familiarity,
because he would be leaving them. It was clear that his main task now was to stay alive, complete and uninjured. He thought about this as though it were a holy vow and resolved to consider how best
to eliminate those activities that offered the most danger.

There was, of course, a problem about the money. The very most he could raise by selling everything saleable, including the old Rover (if it still was saleable) and his mess kit and blues (if
Regimental Headquarters still bought such things), was a little over five hundred pounds. He could think of no job he wanted and would be in no position to borrow from the bank. He thought briefly
of Janet, who had money of her own, but felt this would be ignoble. He was then a little annoyed because he had considered himself above thinking such things were ignoble – it was the kind of
reaction he associated more with the CO than with himself – but he then had to admit that the real reason was that he did not like to commit himself to her any more than he had.

These intriguing speculations were ended by the arrival of the CO. Charles nervously expected a reaction to the letter from the Retirements Board but the CO ate his breakfast quickly, saying
nothing to anyone, called sharply for his vehicles and drove off to the Brigade O Group. When he had gone one of the mess orderlies brought in the newspapers, from the state of which it was clear
that someone had read them hurriedly. It appeared that the CO had had them sent up to his room the moment they appeared. Charles was apprehensive but they turned out on the whole not to be as bad
as he had feared. The riot and subsequent shootings were headlined throughout and there were lots of fuzzy, confusing pictures. There were a few quotations from the CO’s outburst, which came
over surprisingly well, and no one had taken up McColm’s point about high-powered weapons except the
Irish Times
man. The
Gazette
carried essentially the same stories as the
others but with the addition of extensive coverage of the views of local residents. It claimed that soldiers had broken into houses on the pretext of searching for wanted men but that their real
purpose had been to vandalise. The damage in the house that the CO had inspected was accurately listed, although McColm had neglected to mention that the holes in the walls had been caused by a
bullet and not by the soldiers. Inside there was a short feature entitled, ‘The Man who lets God decide’. It said that the CO had been beside himself with rage at the press conference
and asked whether such a man could be trusted to remain cool in more dangerous situations. It questioned the use of high-powered weapons in built-up areas and cited the CO as one who shifted the
responsibility for such decisions to a suspiciously Unionist God, using the Queen of England as his authority. Surprisingly, none of the papers speculated about the cause of the riot, which
remained unknown.