Contact (13 page)

The hours drag on and eventually the rota becomes the only way of knowing which day it is. Day succeeds night succeeds day in a monotonous cycle enriched with the cold wind and the rain; the unceasing rain. Smith snores when he sleeps and so has to be shaken awake whenever he makes a noise. The others are getting restless after the long period of inactivity; the strict self-discipline that O.P. routine imposes begins to gnaw away at the senses, feed the imagination, and sap the energy with the constant tension and knowledge that we are alone out here, with our skill and our instincts to keep us alive.

To pass the time whilst on the observation point, the toms have been passing messages to each other over the tape, telling jokes and swearing at each other, describing each other asleep. All in whispers. As I listen, it is all I can do to stop from bursting into loud laughter. Sanity is a tape-machine and a ceaseless store of jokes. Sanity is kidding yourself that you are far better than the opposition.

Sitting here in the silence of the Irish night, listening to the gentle patter of the rain falling down through the tree branches to drip with consistent accuracy onto my hand clutching my rifle. Looking at the ghostly greeny countryside through the image-intensifying sight gives me the feeling of unreality and lightheadedness that is usually associated with good Moroccan cannabis. I'm high as a kite on tension and exhaustion, a very dangerous condition to be in, but it is so nice! Just twenty-four hours to go before I lift the O.P. and we head off to the L. Z. for an early morning pick-up.

Lifting an O.P. is always a dodgy procedure, when the senses are at their lowest after days of little sleep, with the cold and the wet eating into your ener
gy reserves. We are out without
incident, and heading toward the L.Z. for a pick-up at 0430 hrs., just as the dawn begins to break. It doesn't take long to get there and after posting the sentries with the guns, we can relax a little and let the lads brew up the first hot drink in four days.

"Did you see anything, boss?"

"Not a thing. Still we have to check out the cars that we logged, though I doubt that they will produce anything. It was worth a try." I try to sound convincing, but know that we have really just wasted the time and put ourselves at risk for nothing.

"When are we out next?"

"Tomorrow." Bill groans and shakes his tired head.

"Not another
O.
P. I trust. I couldn't fucking stand that."

"No, just a three-day area foot patrol." Twenty-four hours to rest up, get all the equipment sorted, clothes washed, write a letter home and then out again. That means we get the chance of a couple of good meals before we're back on the gut-wrenching compo.

"Chopper in two minutes, sir."

O.
K. Smith. Right, get your kit together lads.
"

The muted sound of rotor blades becomes a roar as the Puma sweeps low overhead, goes into a tight banked turn and drops down onto the L.Z. in a beautifully executed flare. As the wheels touch down, the lads are off and running to scramble aboard. Time on the ground no more than thirty seconds, before we are off and flying low over the hedgerows and fields. This is the part I enjoy most, feeling the exhilaration of low-flying helicopter flights, the gut-lurching turns and drops, the countryside spread below and the pleasure of not having to walk back with aching shoulders and sore feet.

In no time at all, we are passing over Crossmaglen, lying in its hollow like any other sleepy country village; the base looking like an obscene sculpture on the green landscape.

Round the football field and we are flaring in to land on the helipad, feeling like the returning survivors of the Legion of the Damned. The back gate is open and we go through to
unload, taking the round out of the chamber and replacing it in

the magazine.

"Clean weapons before you do anything else. Section commanders to carry out an inspection," I yell above the rising clamour of the Puma taking off. "After that, a quick de-brief then eat and sleep."

They shuffle off to the billets looking like little old men now that the tension has gone and the tiredness creeps up on them. I follow, mind in neutral, to file my patrol report and drop the tapes into the Int. cell for them to sort out.

"Hello you wanker," comes the cheerful voice of the 2 I.C., but I'm not in the mood.

"Fuck off," says I.

"You can't crack me," he laughs.

"Quack, fucking quack," is my only comment before going up to my bunk to clean my weapon and sort out my kit.

There is a guy looking at me from the mirror. Hollow, red-rimmed eyes with a lost expression, set in a stubble-covered, brown, streaked, wind-blown face, topped by dirty matted hair. I've seen him before on numerous occasions but after a shower, shave, eat and sleep he disappears to be replaced by a pallid spectre, thin and emaciated.

It is difficult to realise that it is still only 0530 hrs., early morning. So the only meal available at this time is a plateful of greasy eggs and bacon with chips and bread, washed down by the everlasting cup of tea. After five days of cold food out of tins, this is heaven and it is hard not to bolt the food down as quickly as possible. The lads are sitting quietly, eating away with little or nothing to say to each other, some nodding off to sleep over their black plastic mugs, others going through the motions of small talk to a non-existent audience. What is there to discuss at 0530 in the morning when you're exhausted? Sleep, give me sleep.

It seems only minutes ago since my head hit the pillow and I zonked straight out, but my watch tells me it has been eight hours. I fall back onto the
pillow and look at the darkened
room, with thin slivers of light coming through the gaps between the sandbags and the breezeblocks. It is taller than it's wide or deep, and my smock hanging on a nail on the door brushes my face if I turn over that way. The door doesn't fully open because the bed is in the way and in my drowsy state I'm trying to figure out how they got the bed into the room in the first place.

Asleep, and this is a cosy little den, away from all the danger and hassle. Awake it becomes a claustrophobic cupboard, pressing in and suffocating. So once fully awake, I get out of bed, dress and make my way into the Mess to see what is going on.

Pat, one of the platoon commanders, is there shovelling food into his mouth as fast as his hand can move. The N.C.O.s have several names for him, the politest being "Doom" and "J.C.B." The first refers to his non-existent qualities as a soldier, and the second to the way he eats his food. He looks up with food spilling out of his mouth and I think that I can do without this having just woken up.

"Finally got out of bed, mattress-back," he says to me, spitting some food onto the table.

"Don't push your luck, son, " says I, to put him back in his place. Jesus, I can't stand the little prick.

He goes a bit pink and carries on eating. I turn and notice the C.S.M. behind me curled up with silent laughter. He can't stand the shit either.

"Afternoon Sar'nt Major."

"Hello sir," he says, barely able to keep a straight face. The longer young Pat stays out of our sight the better we like it.

"Cup of tea, Sar'nt Major?" I ask and pour out a cup to his nod.

"You're going to have to go steady on the twenty-four-hour packs sir, because it looks like we
are going to have to use them.
"

"Why, for fuck's sake?"

"It seems there is a shortage of meat rations and the next resupp. isn't due for another week."

"Oh great. Fucking-A. That is really going to boost morale.

"Sorry sir, but there is little we can do about it."

Now what the hell are we going to do? Out for three days with little or no food. We can't stop patrolling just because there is no food, so it is one pack for two men for twenty-four hours. Just have to supplement it with goodie bars from the Paki in the canteen. How did I ever get into this in the first place?

"O.K. Sar'nt Major, we'll sort something out." You can't crack me, I'm a rubber duck.

Oh well, down to the Ops. Room and find out what has been happening whilst I've been kipping.

"Ah Tony, just the man," the O.C. leaping up the stairs. "I've got an alteration to your patrol for tomorrow. Instead of going up to Cullyhanna, I want you to concentrate on the area directly south, down near the border. It hasn't been covered so far and I want a good patrol there. " I follow him into his room and we discuss the changes over the map of the area.

"Okey-dokey. Will do Major. Presumably we are out at the same time?"

"Yes, no change on that. The drop-off point will be the same as well, so that you can come back in through Monog and clear that area of the town." That over, I carry on with what I started and go on
down to the Ops. Room. The 2 I.
C. is still there.

"Has the O.C. seen you?"

"Yes, just now."

"At least I persuaded him to leave the rest of the programme alone. He wanted to change it all around." He doesn't sound too happy.

"Now, now, no cracking please," I say, just to goad him a bit.

"Sometimes the man is a fucking idiot. If I didn't walk out occasionally I'd hit him. " He fumes on a bit longer, asking me, as I get on with the O.C. or rather the O.C. gets on with me, whether I could have a
word with him about some of the
patrols. There's no point though. As he said, the man's an idiot. Nice, but an idiot just the same.

"Will you take over while I get some scoff in me?" he says. "Go on then, just don't be too long. I
've got things to do, you know.
"

"I'll be as long as I like," he says, flexing his rank. Sometimes he gets a little short-tempered, our 2 I.C. The other week he had a full-scale row with one of the pub owners in the town, in the end almost threatening to kill the bloke. On reflection perhaps we should have let him do it, instead of dragging him out. It would have been one less of the bastards. After showing me who was out on the ground and where they were, he goes off and leaves me with the crackle of the radio, the radio op., and a pack of playing cards. So I settle down to a game of patience and wait, listening to the sounds of the camp. Crossmaglen.

Cross to the locals. X.
M.G. to us. A piece of news, soon to be forgotten, to the rest of the world. I think back to a conversation that occurred in the Mess in Aldershot one night, with an officer spouting about how the risks were very small in Ulster. Then I look at the anti-mortar wire, the gun positions, the sandbags, intruder alarm systems and everything else and begin to wonder where that guy is at. Perhaps all these things are just bluff. Perhaps he knows something the rest of us have yet to learn.

It is in moments like these that I wish I was back safely at home, away from it all. Not just an idle wish, but a fervent longing.

The border stretches away on either side as we lie on the hill scanning the green fields and hillocks with the binoculars. The border, with a thousand crossing points and myriads of wires leading from firing points in the Republic to landmines on the roads and in the hedges of Ulster. Beyond the hedge in front is a sanctuary for the terrorists. A place that, under international law, we are not allowed to fire our weapons into. We are not going to observe that, of course. Who in their right mind
would sit and get shot at without returning fire?

"Bill, we are going to head towards the border crossing at Drumackavall and head up towards this road junction here." I point to it on the map, and gesture in the direction.

"We'll patrol as we have been, but when we get to the junction I want you up on this hillock to cover the rear and Cpl. Edge on the other side on this feature, covering over towards Drumackavall itself."

"
O.
K. boss. " Cpl. Edge nods his assent and we prepare to move.

For once it is not raining, which really makes a change and the lads, although tired, are working well and patrolling with care. There is no need to check that they are going to the right positions when we stop, it has become second nature.

As we go, I check the locations on the map of previous bomb incidents and make sure we skirt the actual detonation sites. The I.R.A. have never heard of the phrase "lightning never strikes twice in the same place" and have a nasty habit of putting bombs back in the craters of the last ones. Over the past few weeks, we have found two firing points, by lying on top of the wires where they come out of the ground. Instead of clearing them we are going to leave them for a possible lure operation at a later date.

"Hello 11, this is 1, send location over."

"11 wait out."

Working down close to the border not far from Crossmaglen, I carry a small Pye Pocketphone radio as well as having the large back-packed A41. It makes life easier for controlling the sections and sending P. Checks and car checks. We stop and I quickly work out the location in code and send it back.

They don't say anything, just carry on with the butts of the rifles pulled more firmly into the shoulders, and heads swivelling from side to side with extra concentration.