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Christ, what a night! All I want to do is get a little sleep. "Well, I'm off to bed, I can't stand the pace any longer." I say and take the five steps to my cupboard.

The O.C. has decided to put a twenty-four-hour watch on the farm close to where we
found the magazine and rounds,
which is O.K., except he wants me
to do it and he wants to come. J
ust what I need at the moment. I have been getting the increasing feeling that the I.R.A. are going to set a booby trap around the base somewhere, as opposed to a straight shoot-out; so that makes life just a little more risky and even more so if we have to look out for the O.C. at the same time.

So here we are struggling through hedges again at the dead of night, cursing inwardly at the torn denims and flesh, sweating with the exertion, trying to get to the farm as quickly as possible in order to get the maximum time on surveillance.

The O.C. is behind me and I know he hasn't a clue where we are, just following on like the rest of the toms. Out here, I'm the boss. This is my element and I'm good at this sort of thing. The radio crackles.

"Hello 11, this is 1, send locati
on over." The voice of the 2 I.
C. carries to those with radios.

"11 wait out," I whisper, call a halt, explain quickly what I am doing, work out the code and send it back.

"1 Roger out," comes the reply, followed by "Rivet, rivet. Quack, quack." Smith, who had the back-packed set turned on, sniggers and I hear a whispering going back through the patrol accompanied by giggles.

The O.C. seems oblivious to it all as he hunches down over a map trying to figure out where we are. The patrol continues and just down in the valley ahead lies our objective, snuggling amongst the trees, innocently asleep in the moonlight. Beyond it rears the menacing Drumackavall feature, black against the night sky.

The house itself is quiet as the grave of a hundred soldiers and we circle it looking into the outhouses and taking the registration numbers of the cars sitting in the forecourt. They clear out on the computer, unfortunately, so we have no excuse to enter the house, just retire to a safe distance and watch.

The cover groups are in position, and the O.C. is with me in my surveillance group in the bottom of a hedgerow. It's a bit like playing hide and seek.
This game, however, goes on for
far too long, trying to stay awake in the hours before dawn when not even a wild animal is creeping about. It all seems so pointless. Grown-ups playing children's games with death the only winner. The O.C. is lying just five metres away from me and every now and then, the bulbous eyes close and his head drops slowly onto the ground, to jerk up again with a look of annoyance. On the other side of me, Smith starts to grunt every now and again as he drops off in a doze and I have to kick him awake. To try and pass the time, I look at the moon and the stars moving in the heavens watching over our puerile game. All the wisdom of the centuries locked up in the never-changing movements of the planets and constellations and in the memory of non-existent exploding stars, shining in the sky.

As the dawn draws nearer, so it gets colder, the dew penetrating our bones and stiffening them, making it more uncomfortable by the minute. The lifting shadows and arriving grey pre-dawn take the decision and after a night of discomfort and inaction we are off back to base moving slowly and confidently in the early-morning stillness.

An explosion shatters the morning air and echoes through the trees, the ground rumbling under our feet. It's come from the direction of the base.

"Follow me, I want a V.C.P. on the Dundalk road. Cpl. Edge to the north and Cpl. Menzies to the south. Come on you cunts, move yourselves."

The O.C. hasn't moved and is standing frozen like the first time this happened to us. Once the rumble of the explosion has died away, the silence reasserts itself and the birds continue to sing in the bushes and trees. After what seems an age we arrive panting at the Dundalk road once again and set the V.C.P.

The O.C. has collared Smith and is trying to find out what has happened. The only answer we get is that my platoon Sgt. found a booby trap and there is one slight casualty. There is a sinking feeling inside me as my overactive imagination gets to work and it takes a superhum
an effort to stop from cracking
here and now. Just get on with the job, it's what you're paid for! No cars on the road at this time and for sure nobody is going to venture out immediately after an incident. So after a few minutes we start patrolling back towards the base, this time ignoring all the safety precautions and moving on the road.

Turn left at the hall and move in through the rear gate. The O.C. goes hurriedly through to the Ops. Room whilst I check that the weapons are cleared. I can hear him ranting through the walls as I make my way to the main building.

"You fool, I've a good mind to have you busted for this. Can't you do a thing that you're told, you people? If I say don't touch anything, that's precisely what I mean."

Sgt. Denny is sitting in the Ops. Room, pale and dazed with his legs burnt, denims in tatters and boots ripped to shreds. He is in shock and the words are not penetrating. The O.C. rants on a bit longer and then storms out, not even bothering to ask how Sgt. Denny is.

"Hey Jimmy, can you hear me?" I say and he nods, looking at me, trying to focus on my face. One of the medics is cleaning the dirt out of the wounds on his legs and I turn to him.

"At least he's not deaf. How are the legs?"

"Just blast burns, sir. They'll take a bit of time to heal, but he'll be O. K.
"

The 2 I.
C. has just finished radioing through for a chopper and turns round in his chair.

"Co
uld you have a word with the O.
C.?" I say to him. "All that bull was totally unnecessary. If I talk to him, I'll just get myself into trouble."

"Don't worry, I'll deal with it. God, the man has about as much knowledge of man-management as a duck."

"What happened?"

"When he was coming in from patrol, he saw an Army torch lying on the road just outside the gate. So he cleared the area, got everyone into the base, put a line on it and then led the line through the gate and shut it after him. He then pulled
and the torch exploded. "

"How come the burns then?"

"Well, the torch must have rolled by the gate and there is a two-inch gap at the bottom. When it blew, the blast went under the gate and hit Sgt. Denny."

"So in fact he did all the right things and was just unlucky. He wasn't being incompetent at all. Does the O.C. know all
this?"

"No, he didn't bother to find out all the facts before he hit the roof."

"Silly cunt. God, that man!"

These last few days have not been too good as far as the O.C. is concerned, but what really gets to me is that he doesn't know that he is putting everybody's backs up. Just wanders around in his own little world hiding behind his rank. To hell with him!

1800 hrs. July 1976.

They blew up a tom

Yesterday,

Snatched the life out

Of him,

Spread it over the

Square.

IT ONLY SEEMS like yesterday since I was on the helicopter
going the other way on R. and R. Now I'm flying back into Crossmaglen, seeing the familiar landscape, thinking tactics and wondering what is in store for me after the Battalion's success the day I left for England a week ago. An O.P. couldn't believe their eyes when they were presented with a carload of gunmen, obviously on a first-time mission. Having managed to hit one, the ensuing chase brought a crop of five complete with weapons. But underneath the jubilation at having at last captured some of the opposition, was the disappointment at the fact that they were amateurs out on a badly organised murder opera
tion aimed at some local Prots.

It's annoying for us down in Crossmaglen because the Company that has had no action at all get everything handed to them, whilst we carry on tip-toeing around in the most dangerous area of Ulster. No doubt someone is going to get a medal. The helicopter completes its final approach and we touch down on the helipad, climb out and run to the back gate.

"Hello boss, back to the hub o' the Universe, the centre of entertainment, the one, the only X.M.G." Sgt. Denny greets me, now almost fully recovered from his burns and back on duty.

"Hi there. Isn't this just a lovely place. I've been waiting all week for this moment. Like fuck I have."

"Well, it's good to h
ave you back, the O.C. has been
driving us all up the wall."

"Oh no, not back to all that."

We carried on discussing the problems of the camp and the situation on the ground, as we made our way to the Mess for a brew and for me to drop my kit and get into uniform. There have only been some minor contacts while I've been away, nothing much to shout about, just odd shots from over the border and some low-velocity rounds fired at the O.P.

My little cupboard seems strangely welcoming and it is frightening just how easy it is to slip into the routine, forgetting the interlude of R. and R.

"Pte. Anson shot himself in the foot the other day." I look up in astonishment.

"How on earth did that happen?"

"We were following up on a shooting, entered a house and he tripped over the carpet. Bang, one hole through foot."

"Clever, very clever." As if we haven't got enough on our plate without clowns shooting themselves. Whatever next.

"O.K. Jimmy, give me the good news, when am I out?"

"0400 hrs. tomorrow morning, an area foot patrol. You walk out, get picked up by chopper tomorrow night and lifted across to the Cullyhanna area, and so on for the following three nights. "

"What, three night pick-ups?"

"Yep.
"

"Wonderful."

I hate night pick-ups, because some of the pilots insist on putting on their landing lights and illuminating the entire area. The best pilots seem to be the Royal Navy guys. At least they try and fly as tactically as possible with the ancient Wessex. So, for three night pick-ups sitting there naked in the floodlight, my insides are turning to water again already.

"How are the lads doing?"

"Pretty good. There are a couple who are real dozy still but the rest are pretty switched on."

The dark shape of the helic
opter is getting bigger and I'm
standi
ng here in the middle of the L.
Z. hoping the pilot is not going to switch on his landing lights. We seem to be lucky and have drawn a good one because he comes straight in on my torch light and puts the metal monster down just in front of me. The lads pile on board and I grab the spare headset and tell the pilot where I want to be dropped off, a
s I've decided to change the L.
Z. He seems quite happy and wheels the aircraft around the night sky with apparent abandon. Must be a Navy pilot.

This is the second pick-up that has gone very smoothly and I'm thinking that if the rest of the patrol goes off like this, it is going to be a good week. Flight time is only four minutes and we descend into the dark field, land and bale out and wait while the helicopter lifts and flies off into the night. The noise has melted away, the silence only broken by the sound of the radio and rustlings of animals in the bushes and hedgerows.

"Cpl. Menzies and Cpl. Edge over here." There is a scrabbling sound and they move across and drop on the ground beside me.

"We'll move across to the mountain and make a firm base for the night up in the rocks. Tomorrow will be soon enough to decide which way to go. I'll lead, then Cpl. Edge and you Bill bring up the rear. O. K.
"

"Right boss."

"Move out in five minutes.
"

The summer night sky is fairly light which makes moving around fairly easy and as we approach the mountains, the hedges and fields become bigger and blackthorn gives way to dry-stone walls, making crossing easier. The mountains are on the eastern edge of our area and borders with C. Company over in Forkhill. The boundaries between areas are always difficult to patrol and there must be good communications between the companies involved otherwise there could be an accident. Seeing a group of people strolling around at night armed to the teeth could be somewhat nerve-racking if you're not expecting them.

It's tiring work climbing u
p the side of the mountain, and
takes longer than I expected. However, we finally find a suitable spot and drop into a natural hollow about twenty feet deep and one hundred feet across, surrounded on all sides by rock parapets. Perfect.

With the guns placed to give all-round defence and a rota system organised, the toms can crawl into little folds in the ground and get a few hours sleep before the dawn. We're about three hundred feet up and the whole area is visible. Away to the south, the lights of Dundalk in the Republic twinkle in the clear air. To the north, only odd lights here and there break up the dark brooding landscape.

A slight breeze ruffles the coarse mountain grass, blowing through the tree branches, gently caressing the leaves, slightly stirring them in their sleep. It is a time to sit and reflect on the beauty of the countryside, on the unspoilt wildlife that abounds and flourishes. The sight of a fox dashing through the undergrowth, brilliant red brush streaming behind and, on a night like this, to watch with fascination the meanderings of the badger on his nightly forage. Beneath the brash exterior of the toms is a natural sensitivity that is shown in their expressions as they watch the night-time parade. Only recently, on a patrol, one of them found a young marsh warbler suffering from exhaustion and seemingly incapable of fending for itself. The tom concerned emptied a pouch of his pack, filled it with grass and popped the bird in. For two days he carried the bird around before we got back to base. He then cared for the bird until it was well enough to set free. All this from the crudest, hardest guy in the platoon.

Sitting here thinking these thoughts, looking out over the Most troubled part of the province, it seems so unreal, just a dream from which we will soon wake and find ourselves back in Aldershot. It is so unfair that all this beauty should be wasted on these people. Back to reality and I check the guns and the toms manning them.

"O.K. up here?"

"Great sir, it's a fuckin' good place," comes the whispered reply.

"Fine, just don't go to sleep, you'll be relieved in an hour." He just nods and continues scanning the countryside. They all seem quite happy, feeling relatively safe up here in the rocks with a good view.

Getting out of the camp is becoming a scary business as we all feel now that the possibility of a booby trap close in is very real and becoming more likely with the passing days. I check every gap in the hedges for trip-wires before going through and look for disturbed ground. The further away from base we get the more easily we breathe, which explains the relaxed attitude of the toms as they close their eyes up here on the mountain. I make my way down to where Smith has found a little nook and curl up close by so that I can hear the radio transmissions. Pulling my smock around me I try and get some sleep; it's going to be an early start again, as soon as dawn breaks. Before I go to sleep, the day's happenings flit through my mind and I can see again the face of the woman we stopped on a routine V.C.P. She was a Prot. and had her son with her. As soon as we stopped her she started ranting on about how we should be getting the gunmen instead of stopping innocent people on the road. She then went on to say that her son had been tortured by the I.R.A. and shot nine times in the thighs. To prove the point, she made the poor bugger show us the bullet wounds in his legs. The feeling of shame I had at the time was indescribable. Shame, not for myself but for the fact that I was a member of the so-called "human race". Why do people enjoy inflicting pain on others? With that question burning in my mind, I close my eyes.

The last night pick-up dropped us off
just before dawn about a thousand metres to the east of Monog on the other side of the hill, to enable us to patrol back in and clear that side of the town, before returning to base. Monog looks no different in the flattering light of dawn, perched on the edge of the hill, grubby houses like dirty smudges against the fresh green of the fields. Beyond, catching the first light of day, Crossmaglen. The church over to our right dominating the town;
the church, the local icon, the local salve to a wounded collective conscience; the church, rich, impressive, the excuse for barbarity and the salvation from it.

The town square, plainly visible over the top of the tatty buildings, the centre stage of the eternal play, with the base occupying the best seats in the house. Oh well, take a deep breath and start moving on down the hill towards the village and trust everyone is asleep today.

The dogs hear us coming and start their barking, declaring our exact location by the intensity of the sound. I may be a dog lover with one of my own, but when my life is at risk they become a hazard. From the yard of a small farm comes the high-pitched squeal of an animal in pain and the barking dies away. Suddenly the whole village is quiet save the whimpering of the injured animal. One of the toms appears from the yard with an evil grin on his face.

"Won't have any more trouble, boss," he says and creeps away to join his patrol.

We wander around the village for a little while, peeking in at windows, digging around unlocked outhouses and generally being nosey. It's great at this time in the morning with the place deserted, everyone in bed, some sleeping, others in the process of creating more mouths to feed. Monog, a seedy collection of unkempt dwellings, rusty cars and hate-filled people. Not exactly Ulster's best tourist attraction. Bored with poking our noses around, we make our way over the fields and across towards the Dundalk road, to put an early morning V.C.P. on it by the school.

The toms are getting restless now to get back in and have a good breakfast after the past few days of compo rations. It would be nice to have a wash and shave too. We look more like a bunch of tramps, with filthy boots and denims, and stubble-covered chins.

"O.K. Cpl. Edge, move off b
ack to camp and go firm at the j
unction with the square. As soon as you are firm, we'll move through you and in at the front gate."

The first patrol walks slowly up th
e road toward the square
whilst we wait here and cover their rear. It looks as if it will be a nice day.

Having had breakfast, washed, shaved and rescued my burning denims from the drier before the base goes up in flames, it is time to check that all the toms are safely tucked away. Apart from eating and cleaning weapons, sleep is the most important item, because a tired tom is a danger to himself as well as the rest of the patrol.

The bunkhouse is long and narrow, with between eight and ten toms to each room. Communal living with a vengeance, and it is surprising that more fights don't break out.

Looking into the rooms, I can just make out the green humped shapes of occupied sleeping-bags on some bunks and on others the quiet sight of a tom writing home or gently cleaning his rifle. The walls are festooned with naked women cut out of the more risque magazines of European origin, together with posters and drawings of rubber ducks.

It may be a job, but the living and working conditions would be condemned by any health authority. Earlier on in the tour, due to the bad weather and various other problems, we had been unable to get the rubbish out of the base and it became worse than any Bombay slum. Disinfectant was spread around every day to combat the possibility of disease and the smell of this mixed with the smell of rotting food became an overpowering accompaniment to the already miserably cramped conditions.

Leaving the bunkhouse, I drop in and see Sgt. Denny, whose private little cubby hole is even smaller than mine. Rubber ducks are not only all over the outside, they are also inside. That plus the familiar "Quack" greeting that has now become the platoon's verbal mascot, makes the whole place just a little bizarre.

"How's it going Jimmy?"

"O.K. boss, just getting a little pissed off with our leader." "Oh, what's he been doing now?"