Contact (10 page)

He gives me a sidelong look and shrugs. "From what I can make out on the Battalion radio net, they are nowhere near ready. Rest assured it will be hours."

Rest assured he says. The temperature is dropping, we have no winter warfare kit, everyone is soaking wet and freezing and the bloody Marines are pissing about because they can't read a fucking map!

Thinking all this while I crawl back down the tree lined track to where my platoon as advanced party are hidden in the bushes and trees getting colder and colder. It would be very easy for a few of them to give up. What am I saying? The constant rain, which has now stopped, thank God, must have penetrated my brain.

"Sgt. Denny?"

"Yes boss. Over here."

"It's going to be a very long night. We'd better get everybody closed up. That way they might keep each other warm.

"Already done boss."

"Clever shit. Seems like the Marines are still wandering Norway trying to find the airfield."

"Wouldn't surprise me, they spend so much time at sea the salt water must rust their brains away."

The conversation carries on in low tones, whiling the time away thinking this is a very strange way to earn a living. At least here in the cover of the trees we're saved from the wind.

"Let one man per section brew up under cover of a poncho."

"Good idea!" He crawls over to the section commanders and soon there is the tell-tale smell of hexamine. We wouldn't do it in action, but I've reasoned that tonight there is a case for it. It's either get some hot drink inside some of these guys or suffer the consequence of exposure. The
O.
C. better agree. If he finds out. Would be interesting if the Marines suddenly decided they were ready. No chance! I tell myself. And hope I'm right.

"Here boss. Get some of this down inside you!"

"Cheers. Any problems?"

"Not yet. The brew really helped."

"I just hope they real
ise they can't do this in South
Armagh."

"I don't reckon it's
going to be that cold in South
Armagh."

"You're right.
" Somewhere out there are Marines wandering around looking for an airfield and lots of little part-time Norwegian soldiers waiting to be attacked. We know where the Norwegians are but nobody knows where the dumb Marines are. To cap it all, it's just started to snow very lightly. Already there is a thin coating of the white stuff all over the trees, the ground and us. Marvellous. Why couldn't it wait for Christmas.

Away in the distance there is the sound of gunfire. After the initial stir of interest everyone settles down again.

"Seems as if they have started to get themselves together." "Doubt it. Probably walking into their own ambush." "Why don't you get some kip, boss. I'll wake you in an

hour."

It makes sense. So I pull my poncho over myself and try and sleep. It's incredible. When you're really tired you can sleep anywhere. A skill learned in Belfast in '73. Fitful slumber, to wake with aching bones and a lightheaded feeling. Having woken me from my short sleep, Sgt. Denny nods off supported by the trunk of a pine tree.

It's now nearly four o'clock in the morning and the light is slowly beginning to filter through the darkness, casting strange shadows on the landscape.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I know is that my radio operator is shaking me.

"Message from 1 sir. Ready to move in ten minutes."

"Right. Relay to the sections."

"I've done that." Boy, I'd better get a grip of things.

"Wake up Jimmy. Moving in ten minutes.
"

"I heard."

Suddenly there is activity all around. The rustle and clinking of men getting their equipment together. Low murmurs, purposeful whispers and the air of excitement that chases away the cold and the t
iredness. For the first time we
can see the countryside in the light of dawn.

"Looks like fucking Sennybridge."

"Perhaps we are in fucking Sennybridge."

"If we are, then I'm going down to Sarah Siddons tonight.

"You're just wishful thinking, cunt. There's no big Liz in this country."

"Bet I find one.
"

"You're just looking to get poxed up, you prick." And so on. The sound of toms coming alive.

"Cut the crap. Let's go. Make sure that radio is on Smith."

"
O.
K. That's it. The end. Finish."

"Hoorah!" Chorus of cheers from the band of filthy wet smelly soldiers.

"Thank fuck for that. Let's get down to the serious business of drinking and whoring!"

"What would you know about women, Anson?" The baby-faced tom colours slightly.

"Oh piss off!" Jeers and catcalls. Now that the exercise is over suddenly the tiredest tom comes alive and shows remarkable alacrity especially when it comes to climbing into the back of a four-ton vehicle. Four days of seeking the fleshpots of Oslo coming up. Firstly we have to find the camp. It takes two hours to get there. Once there the enthusiasm and cheerfulness disappear as we stare at accommodation. What a joke! It is a tented camp. Round dark-green canvas obscenities with duck-boards on the muddy ground and a wood fire in the middle belching out smoke, making the eyes stream and everything smell. These Marines sure know how to fuck things up.

The platoon commander's tent is like something out of films about the Khyber Pass. A white ridge tent with high walls and ties for the flaps.

"Fuck this. Let's find the Mess." So off
Pete and I go in search of the Officers Mess. It's a long walk but we find it eventually. The next ten minutes is spent wandering around the corridors.

"Hey Tone, look at the names
on these doors. Sgt. Murphy, W.O.
2 Grant, Sgt. Macbain, etc. What do the little chits think they are pl
aying at. Sticking all their N.
C.
O.
s into the Mess with no room even for the
O.
C.

"Come on, let's find someone. Fucking cabbage-heads. Couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery. Bastards!" There's a
passing Sgt.

"Sgt. Who's in charge of the accommodation here?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Put a sir on the end of that and answer the question. Just who do you think you're talking to?"

"I beg your pardon, sir. I am."

"Then where are our rooms?"

"You don't have any." There is a smirk on his face that is going to get wiped off with the butt of my rifle if he's not careful.

"Really. Then let me put it to you this way. My Company Commander better have a room by the time he arrives or the fucking
s
hit is going to hit the fan so hard it'll take those stripes straight off your arm. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Yes sir." He disappears off and Pete and I are just leaving when our Norwegian Captain friend arrives.

"Are you staying here?"

"No. It seems we haven't been allocated rooms."

"Then come and stay with me at my house. I'll bring you in every morning. But not tonight. I have arranged a party with twelve lovely girls. Very intelligent and very pretty. Can you bring twelve people?"

"No problem. Where is it?" He gives us the address of a hotel in Oslo and we go off to sort the soldiers out in a reasonable frame of mind. In order to get twelve people some of the Marines are going to have to come. We ask a few but all we get is the excuse that they are not allowed to leave camp. Fucking crap-hats. Professionally inept and social dwarfs. Pete and I then approach our senior N.C.
O.s
all of whom are only too pleased to go along.

Once the admin is out of the way, the
O.C. piles us all into a
couple of open Landrovers and off to Oslo we go. Twelve paratroopers looking for a screw. Twelve overgrown juveniles off to the fleshpots like kids just let out of school for the day. Who cares! Let's enjoy it. We'll eat the elk steaks, drink the lager with aquavit chasers. Get pissed and then try and lay a willing Norwegian girl.

Tomorrow we could get killed.

1130 hrs. April 1976.

Bright sunlit morning

Reflecting off whitewashed walls Shining off wire mesh

Dazzling across wrinkly tin

Blocked by camouflage netting.

THE CLATTER OF the helicopter comes clearly through the afternoon skies, and the nervous chatter increases a little.

"Helipad, this is Ops. Room, chopper in two minutes."

"O.K." I reply, "where's the O.C?"

"Just coming," says the dismembered voice through the intercom.

Our first patrol as a platoon on our first day here at Crossmaglen and the O.C. wants to come out to have a look at the border. Just the sort of thing I can do without on this the first time in action
with my new platoon. The N.C.O.
s came out with me on the advance party, so we've been here a week trying to learn the ground and get as much information as possible, now I want a shake-down to make sure everyone is working as per training and that there are no major worries.

"What's the O.C. coming out for, boss?" This from one of the section commanders.

"He wants to see the area."

"Then why doesn't he go with some other bugger?"

The complaining continues and I check my equipment for the fiftieth time. Map, compass, belt and pouches, codes, personality check-list, stolen car list, ammunition, rifle and lastly my radio op. to see whether he has everything.

"All set, Tony?" the O.C. creeping up on me.

"No problems. If you stay with Cpl. Menzies' patrol it will give them less to aim at."

"Fine.
"

The clatter of the Wessex becomes deafening as it swoops over the top of the police station and round the football pitch to descend onto the helipad. As it touches down we race out and throw our kit in, clambering after it. The shorter the turn-around the better, and within a few seconds we are airborne and moving tactically along at low level, swinging round trees and hills, dropping into little gullies, dodging power lines and telephone wires.

We are moving down towards Cullaville right on the border with the Republic. The Wessex swings round in a tight turn, drops, flares and touches on the soggy turf. As soon as the wheels touch we are off and running. Guns into fire positions, my section commanders and I showing them the route. There's no time to notice the tight feeling in your stomach, or the nervous playing with the safety catch.

"
O.
K. Cpl. Menzies, move off."

I look over to the right and see the third patrol in position on the side of a small hill, to give cover to our two patrols that will be moving. Bill, Cpl. Menzies, is moving slowly away towards the road. First objective a V.C.P. on the Crossmaglen-to-Cullaville Road.

"Right lads, let's go."

We follow, fight our way through the blackthorn hedge and position ourselves on the road. It's an eerie feeling standing there knowing that there are hidden pairs of eyes watching us and logging every move we make for future reference.

Having talked about it in the Mess the night before, we reckon that the chances of getting hit on the first day are pretty small, because the opposition don't know how we are going to operate, and, being far more professional than the cowboys in Belfast, they will not do anything until they are sure of a kill.

Pleasant thoughts on the ground, everything looking so innocent with the sun shining on the green fields, the gentle breeze swaying the trees, the sounds of the birds.

Hello, a car. Bill flags him down and suddenly the old
familiar routine of the V.C.P. comes flooding back and I am no longer unsure of my ability and begin to relax.

"11 Roger out."

Without me being aware, the radio op. has given a car check and received the reply. Well at least someone is thinking, if not me. The O.C. is deep in conversation with the driver of the car, being about as subtle as a pork pie in a synagogue.

"You mean to tell me you don't know what goes on around here," he is saying to a fairly elderly Irishman who looks like an ordinary farmer to me. "Come now, you must know what's going on."

Well, he's stubborn, that's for sure, but the old boy is not about to say a thing even if he does know what's going on. The lads are looking bored with the questioning, and eventually the O.C. lets the guy go.

Ten minutes we've been on this V.C.P. — that's too long, so as soon as the car has gone we are up and moving. Back through the hedge, up to the covering patrol and on over the fields. This is just a short patrol so we are moving back towards the base, checking things as we go.

Little crofts are tucked into the sides of the hills, their land extending to a few acres of not very good soil. Cullaville itself consists of a small housing estate, the odd shop and a few other houses dotted on the side of the Concession Road. This is a road that cuts across the apex of the triangle of land south of Crossmaglen and allows for the people from the South to cut across Northern Irish territory without having to go through the customs procedure. That's a laugh. Most of the customs posts have been blown up, so it is easy for anyone wanting to enter the U.K. to stroll across the border, climb on a ferry and go to England. What a joke.

There is one thing about being here, at least the air is fresh and it's good to feel the earth beneath your feet instead of hard tarmac and paving stones. If only we didn't have to fight. Still, it's the job you volunteered for, Clarke, so you can just get on with it. Forget home and comfort, think nasty. Think bombs and bullets. Think death.

My patrol closes up on Bill's who are down in a cover position for the other patrol now moving up towards us. The O.C. has the map out and is staring at it in confusion.

"I'm just trying to pinpoint exactly where we are, Tony."

"Just there," says I, leaning over his shoulder and displaying my teeth in a grin to Bill.

"Oh yes, of course, fine, thank you."

"I think we should start moving back to the base now, Major, we've been out for a couple of hours now and the next patrol is due out soon."

"Right, let's go."

Fighting through the blackthorn is the most difficult way of moving across country, but in this part of the world it is the safest way to travel. By making our own holes we lessen the risk of running into a booby trap, many of which have been planted on gateposts, in drainage culverts under roads, and so on. No vehicles are allowed on the roads down here, so all movement is either on foot or by helicopter. The place is a minefield, covered with home-made landmines, just waiting for the opportunity to be detonated under a patrol.

What a delightful part of the world to spend a summer. Who would think that this is part of the British Isles? Here we are walking around with three machine guns, two M.79 grenade launchers, a personal rifle and enough ammunition to have a fair-size war all on our own. All the weapons are cocked and waiting for the off. Well, you wanted excitement, Clarke, you are getting it. At least the same rules don't necessarily apply down here as they do in Belfast, or at least, people are willing to turn a blind eye to any infringements of the letter of the yellow card. Sure as hell, if I see some bastard with a gun, I'm not about to ask him to surrender. Shoot first, then ask questions after. No way am I going to take any chances at all. Crossmaglen. All through my service, this place has figured prominently in the news. That it is a deathtrap is in no doubt, but it is surprising to find out just how small the town is. In fact, to spend a two-hour foot pat
rol in it is hard to do without
crossing your path a few times.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Cunting thing."

Shaken out of my reverie by the dulcet tones of Smith my radio op. getting stuck in the blackthorn and ripping his denims open.

"Don't worry, Smith, you'll get used to patching those up by the end of the tour."

He just glares and mumbles away to himself whilst the others behind laugh. I managed to scrounge some gloves off the departing Royal Scots which at least protect the hands from the vicious thorns. However, the gloves are for issue to winter-tour troops only and so far every effort to get some for us have failed. Good old bureaucratic red tape as usual. Perhaps one of the civil servants who makes these decisions should be made to do a four-month tour. That would soon change his mind.

We get Smith disentangled from the hedge and move into fire positions to cover the other patrols up and past us. I can see Jones on the gun, crawling into a good place, carefully setting the gun up and hear the sliding click as he cocks it.

Out with the map and check the surrounding countryside. I see that when we get to the top of the hill in front of us we should be able to see straight across to the base. I don't know if the word base is a good description, it's more like a fortress, bristling with O.P.s, each with a machine-gun and plenty of ammunition, covered over with wire mesh so that mortar bombs or grenades don't penetrate. The whole thing is sandbagged and with super-thick walls to minimise the effect of any blast. An old provincial police station built to house a few local constables, it is now the home for over one hundred and thirty men in cramped conditions. The only life-line, the helicopters that fly in the food and patrols, and fly out the rubbish and more patrols.

The Battalion has one other Company in a border base at Forkhill over to the east of us, nestling on the other side of a spur of the mountain I can see rising darkly out of the green land. Smith nudges me.

"Coy H.
Q. want to know our location, sir. "

I give it to him to send in code and go back to planning the next part of the route on the map and on the ground. The other two patrols are getting closer and will be with us in a few minutes. So I have time just to look around a little more.

The problem with crossing the fields is that they are all so small, so no sooner have you fought your way through one bloody hedge than another is there before you. We are getting too far away from the road and will have to swing to the wes
t so that we can put another V.C.
P. on before going back in. I wish I didn't have to keep looking at the map; still, given time, I'll get to know the area like the back of my hand and won't have to rely solely on the map.

"Come on, you lot, get your arses up here. I want to get to the top of the hill and have a look-see."

"Which section's on stag first, when we get back, boss?"

"I think you'll find that Jimmy has already figured it all out and has the whole thing under control.
"

"Look at that, for fuck's sake."

The O.C. has got himself entangled in the blackthorn and emerges with as much dignity as he can muster. He is tall with eyes that pop out giving him the look of a frog and the toms the chance to coin the nickname "Rivet", being the noise a frog makes. So that's all you can hear for the next few minutes.

"Rivet, rivet! Rivet, rivet!"

Whether he knows that it is aimed at him, I've no way of telling but he certainly has given no indication that he knows. This, of course, allows the toms to do it mercilessly.

Finally, the other patrols arrive and move into position and I can now go on up to the top of the hill and see just where we are. I struggle through another blackthorn hedge cursing silently. Fall over, get to my feet and carry on.

Suddenly a loud explosion rips the air from the direction of the base, followed rapidly by another and then the rippling crack of machine-gun and rifle fi
re. Holy shit, they've done it.
The bastards have done it. I leap forward, Bill running with me. Turning to yell, I can see the O.C. standing stock-still, the shock keeping his feet rooted to the ground. My yell has penetrated and everyone is moving.

Through the next blackthorn panting with exertion, heart hammering, shaking with nerves, and there is the base a thousand metres ahead with a pall of smoke hanging over it and the gunfire echoing across the fields. We must get to a road and put a V.C.P. on and see if we can get the bastards before they get back across the border.

"Come on you cunts, get your butts up here," I yell, running down a track that I hope will lead to the Crossmaglen and Cullaville road. All caution is thrown to the wind in the confusion of the moment. Got to block the road. There it is.

"Smith, over here with the radio. Jones, get the gun up there. Bill, your patrol back up the road. Where's Cpl. Edge?" Where the hell is he? Then I see him just on the brow of a small hill overlooking the road.

"Smith, tell Cpl. Edge to stay where he is and cover us." The O.C. comes racing up, white-faced.

"Smith, a message to 1. Tell them that we are blocking the Cullaville road."

Before the
O.
C. can say anything a message comes through that a rocket or two were fired at a Wessex coming in to land followed by a small-arms attack on the base itself. The O.C. is hopping up and down wanting to know the full details and I'm trying to get him away
from the radio so that the 2 I.
C., who is in command at the base at the moment, can get on with the job of putting in a counter attack. There is nothing we can do from here except block off the road and hope we catch someone. I'm having my doubts because looking at the map, the easiest way to the border is down the Dundalk road which is a thousand metres over to our east. Shit, shit, shit.