During the Monologue, an Unknown Voice Asks Questions
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THE HARD WAY. THREE EPISODES TELLING THE STORY OF THE ENLISTMENT & SERVICE OF GUY BURRELL R.O.A.C
The series is written as a monologue combined with a narrative. The first episode, ‘INAPPROPRIATE HUMOUR’, details a double kidnap and bomb incident in Northern Ireland in the 1980s.
The second episode, ‘YOU’RE A BETTER MAN THAN I AM, GUNGA DIN!’ addresses Burrell’s character and takes the story back to his teenage years, explaining how he was forced to enlist as a Magistrate’s Soldier. The story covers his battle with authority and his gradual growth toward being a soldier.
During the monologue, an unknown voice asks questions.
The final episode, ‘LESSONS ON HOW TO ACT IN PUBLIC‘, reveals the voice is that of a psychologist, as Burrell undergoes therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder. Further dramatic episodes in Burrell’s Army service are brought to the surface. As the tale takes a huge, unexpected turn, can Burrell stay in the Army or must he face the terrifying prospect of being invalided out?
About the author.
Although all of the incidents are based on actual events as I can recall them or as they were narrated to me, only a few actually happened to me. I served with the Royal Anglians as a driver and Close Quarters Combat (CQC) instructor in the early eighties. Later, I was part of aid missions to Eastern Europe and saw things that will always stay with me. Writing this work has been my therapy. 2 | P a g e
For my Father (RSC), Uncle Jack (RM), Uncle Ronnie (RM Commando), Uncle Jack (RMN), Uncle Vic (RNSS),
Major E M Caulfield RLC (for advice and support)
With special thanks to my much loved partner Katie without whom this work would never have been started. 3 | P a g e
THE HARD WAY.
PART ONE: INAPPROPRIATE HUMOUR 6
Chapter 1: A Day-trip to Riotsville. 8
Chapter 2: Coulson Will Need Some Rations. 16
Chapter 3: Excused Boots. 20
Chapter 4: Shooting Dogs. 23
Chapter 5: Are You OK, Missy? 27
Chapter 6: All Hands. 32
Chapter 7: COULSON. D? 34
Chapter 8: Haywood and the Heatround. 38
Chapter 9: Haywood’s Gone Walkabout. 44
Chapter 10: The Ballad of Rosie Coyle. 48
Chapter 11: We’ll Swot the Flies. 51
Chapter 12: Answering to God. 56
Chapter 13: It’s a Big Firm, Sally. 61
Chapter 14: The Second Kill of the Day. 64
Chapter 15: The Pig Stick and the Wheelbarrow. 79
Chapter 16: A Quare Geg. 82
Chapter 17: SUA TELA TONANTI. 88 4 | P a g e
PART TWO: ‘YOU’RE A BETTER MAN THAN I AM, GUNGA DIN!’ 90
Chapter 18: Early Days and the Mighty Mr Duff. 90
Chapter 19: More Tea, Vicar? 94
Chapter 20: A Magistrate’s Soldier. 102
Chapter 21: The Legend of Sgt Major Jones. 106
Chapter 22: Nurse’s Knackers. 109
Chapter 23: The Art of ‘Milling’. 118
Chapter 24: Always the Hard Way, eh, Son? 123
Chapter r In Danger of Becoming Soldiers. 133
Chapter 26: Faster, Longer, Harder. 136
Chapter w Willis and Burrell Step Up to the Line (The Assault Course). 140
Chapter 28: The Next Fifteen Summers. 149 5 | P a g e
PART THREE: ‘LESSONS ON HOW TO ACT IN PUBLIC’ 150
Chapter 29: Escape and Evade. 158
Chapter 30: ‘Burrell…. What????’ 160
Chapter 31: Code Red Mini. 167
Chapter 32: Decisive Retribution. 171
Chapter 33: Stay Inside, Punch His Lights Out’. 174
Chapter 34: Fmed 8. 179
Chapter 35: “You’ll Never Play theViolin Again.” 184
Chapter 36: Sandbags and Gladrags. 188
Chapter 37: Limey Creepers. 193
Chapter 38: ‘Lowlife British Punk?’ 199
Chapter 39: ‘Not as Bad as it Looks.’ 202
Chapter 40: 'I am Unclean.’ 204
Chapter 41: Empty Lungs. 210
Chapter 42: ‘You Will Be Suitably Compensated’. 213
Chapter 43: ‘I am the Wife of Milo Petrović.’ 216
Chapter 44: Inside the Children’s Hospital. 222
Chapter 45: Joe and the Rabbit. 229
Burrell and Coulson’s OP & The RUC Roadblock 235
Kosovo. Burrell’s Plan to save the girl. 236 6 | P a g e 7 | P a g e
PART ONE: INAPPROPRIATE HUMOUR
The memorial to the fallen of two wars had always been a bone of contention in the town, for obvious reasons. Sitting in the far corner of the square, and surrounded by grey flagstones, centuries-old cottages and small town businesses, it was a world away from the pain and human conflict it signified. Aged under a grey Irish sky, it had another purpose now: it had become the symbol of the troubles and at the same time a stage of execution.
There for the world to see, if it were not already weary of such things, hung the terrified body of a young soldier, with his arms tied around the back of the obelisk and unable to free himself or to escape the bitter February drizzle. He was under no illusions about what this all meant, and neither was the ‘Felix’ specialist making the ‘long lonely walk’ toward him.
‘Felix’ was the nickname of 321 Coy RAOC Explosive Ordnance Disposal Squad. All units in Northern Ireland had a 'call sign' to be used over the radios, but 321 Company, being a newly formed unit, hadn't such a call sign, and so a young signaller was sent to the Officer Commanding of 321 Coy. The OC, having lost two technicians that morning, decided on Phoenix, “to rise again from the ashes”. This was misheard as ‘Felix’ by the signaller and never changed; so whenever a situation such as the one in the square arose, the call was "Fetch Felix".
Immediately upon receiving the coded warning, the square had been evacuated, but a large crowd gathered at the junction of High Street and Church Lane, some two hundred yards away. They knew by the size of the packages, just visible, strapped to the soldier’s body, that even at that distance there was a possibility of being hit by the fallout of the ensuing detonation, and they kept their heads down. 8 | P a g e
The unit from Felix squadron thoroughly evaluated the situation. This soldier was one of their own, and had been able to impart valuable information about the device strapped to him to his colleagues, who were stationed behind the sandbags and next to the parked ‘Felix Pig’, a little under a hundred yards from the memorial.
Wearing his EOD protection suit, the single specialist drew closer. Silhouetted against the surrounding buildings by the fading light, he appeared to the observers at the junction to be comical and straight- limbed. He took his time as he made his way over the final twenty yards.
Covertly watching from nearby, somebody else, somebody far less sympathetic to the soldier’s dilemma, had waited for this moment and decided that he had taken enough time. 9 | P a g e
Chapter 1: A Day Trip to Riotville.
“I got the call to move about ten in the morning. The night before, Coulson and I had been scraping an OP out of the fucking permafrost on the south- east escarpment, overlooking a back road where Paddy had been smuggling God knows what into Antrim. Trouble was, Paddy was getting wise to our little pm excursions and had started sending dogs into the fields adjacent the back doubles, to try to flush us out. Because they were doing this under the guise of hare-coursing, we couldn’t stop the bastards, as this is a fucked-up national pastime.
Anyway, the dogs were occasionally finding our OP’s and that had been a trifle embarrassing. Consequently, we decided to make sure that nobody had detected our little covert love nest before we manned it and so Coulson hunkered down for the night up on the ridge to watch over the OP, and I grabbed our excess digging kit and RTU’ed - that’s squaddie speak for Returned to Unit - for a brew and a shower. I was planning to rock back up with fresh rations and help man it with Coulson early next morning.
No plan survives first contact and the second I had boots off, and a tactical tea bag dying for its country, the unit Second in Command stood me by for a crowd control duty in Belfast the next day.
Why me? Well, Operation Banner had been downsized in order to appease the suits. According to them, the situation in NI was in remission and there were rumours of plans to pull out of the Free State completely. Yeah, fucking right... politicians are idiots, obvious result: not enough bods for the task, so it was always all hands when Paddy got the riot bug and, for reasons I can’t recall, tomorrow was looking to be another one of those days.
So now I’m fucking Cpl Guy Burrell, duty riot snatch squad wallah. No shield or baton for me ‘cause I’m to be a snatcher, just tin hat with visor, a stab vest 10 | P a g e full of ceramic tiles and some elaborate lower arm protection, which was shite because it slipped over the wrist when worn in anger, so you couldn’t hold on to any fucker after you’d snatched them.
We left these wrist bands in the Pig mostly, because if you left them at base, some enterprising full screw would nick them and flog them to the tour virgins or other sprogs, and I fucking hate replacement kit requisitions. RKR’s were all about ‘Bring in an unserviceable item, get a shiny new item in return...’ whereas if you brought in fuck-all... You get my drift?
At ten thirty hours precisely, I’m stacked and packed into one of five TK’s and outward bound, happy days... and so Coulson, lucky bastard, now gets to spend some quality time with Cpl Sally Haywood, aka Private Benjamin (because she’s blond with nice baps). She being the only other person who was aware of the actual position of our new Irish des res, and only then because she was duty driver on our original recce.
We had a number of these impromptu OP’s and kept their locations ‘need to know’ for obvious reasons.
Anyway, in those heady days of the mid-eighties, the fairer sex weren’t considered suitable for crowd control and thus it came to pass that Cpl Haywood got my OP duty with Coulson, the smelly Geordie fuckwit, and I got a day trip to Riotville.
I was still due to take post as soon as I was back from Belfast, though - straight in without shit, shave or shower... talk about best of both worlds, one minute the life and soul of a kicking street party, the next staring through bins at the lovely Irish countryside for hours on end, and dining on a cold bacon roll. But right now, I’m facing the backs of a thin line of hungry grunts with riot shields, who in turn are facing four fucking hundred pissed off Paddies with Molotovs (or Mollies) and tied plastic bags full of last night’s session. 11 | P a g e
My dry-cleaning mess bill was going to go into orbit what with all that and the next twenty-four hours lying in a ditch crapping in a buddy bag. It all kind of makes the whole business of disarming a Provisional Irish Republican Army career-stopper quite desirable.
Comms (communications) were always bad during these little excursions. Way back in the day, the ‘Ruperts’ used megaphones, but got miffed at being shot at all the time, so they tried whistles. I was on a skill at arms cadre so I missed the bullshit training organised by a certain Adjutant in ‘Whistle code command recognition, whilst in crowd disorder’. You’ve just got to love these convoluted labels the Army hangs on everything.
He’d sat up all night working out a signalling system. You know: squad will advance (two blasts); squad will stand to (One short, one long blast); turn to the right in fucking threes (three short blasts), and all that shite. He might as well have fucked it all off and knocked one out in his fur-lined bivvy bag, ‘officer for the use of’, for all the good it was. Probably a far more productive use of his time, unless of course you happened to be his sharp-faced German missus.
You see, the problem was that the first time we deployed the whistles, Paddy cottoned on sharpish. Next thing we knew, every fucker from Belfast to Portadown brought a fucking whistle to the party. The resulting confusion led to a legendary crowd control operational fuck-up and subsequent riot, which probably cost the Adjutant his ticket, the wanker.
The plus side was that he was replaced by a hard-arse named Jones, who had come up through the ranks. He pushed for walkies on a secure channel, and as technology had come a long way since Dunkirk for fuck’s sake, walkies were the obvious. It was still difficult to hear shit over the screaming, though, so you had to be permanently on the watch. 12 | P a g e
The lads had actually worked it out in their sections and everybody muddled along somehow: the trouble was, apart from about four others from my Coy, these weren’t my muckers, and I felt like a bacon sandwich at a bar mitzvah.
The snatchers worked like this. A third of the front line would push forward with riot shields and batons while the other two thirds would form a Vee through the left or right flank which, hopefully, would bottle up a section of rioters. The RUC support force would then act as rear guard with APCs ready in close formation. This was all backed up nicely with baton rounds and CS, if the wind was in the right direction.
When you got them bottled tight, the snatchers would approach through the ranks and reach between the shields to pull some lucky fucker out and pass him down the line to eager hands ready to ‘subdue and contain’ if needed. After which, the gentleman or lady in question would win a free jolly in an APC and a greasy breakfast in the nearest RUC nick.
That was the theory, anyway...
I didn’t hear the order to advance but it was fairly obvious, as every fucker in front of me started to move forward, visors down, shoving with their shields and striking hard over the tops with their batons in their right hands. The crowd was going fucking loopy and fought back hard, and I’ll tell you something - those young Belfast girls can scream like their fucking tits are alight.
Suddenly, another group of about forty appeared from a side street and starting pelting our left flank with bricks and whatever they could get to hand. I recall seeing a Molly spinning through the air, trailing black smoke and burning accelerant then bursting square on the shield of one lad just forward and to the left of me. I felt the heat on my face even through my visor and, just for a moment, I thought we’d lost control. 13 | P a g e
In those circumstances, it’s fucking hard to know where the next helping of shit is coming from. All you really know for sure is what’s directly in front of you and to your immediate right or left; you really have to keep the faith and trust your platoon commander is listening to his Sergeant and full screws, and reacting accordingly. So, I hunkered down and soldiered on like a good boy and kept the faith.
The lads of this particular platoon were Royal Anglians, ‘The Poachers’, sons of the Fens, hardy carrot-crunchers and tough as fuck. They stood fast and stuck it right back to them in their sunny Belfast faces. Turning like a clockwork locomotive into the rioters on the left, they broke them with a charge and then sealed the side street. I once had a night out in Bassingbourn with some of these farmers from Depot Queens, and their preferred beer is horse piss. I reckon this is the reason they’re so fucking angry all the time.
Consequently, and after all that mighty effort, it all seemed to be working to plan again and so me and about six others of the chosen few now pulled down our visors and got tight in, and several others fell in behind, ready with batons. The lads had marshalled the rioters well, and quite a few of the locals were beginning to travel in the desired direction. I selected what I thought was a nice easy option and made toward the front line, yelling ‘coming through, mind your backs!’ As the two shields in front of me parted to order, I shifted my weight onto my leading leg and reached through with my left arm whilst grabbing the webbing of one of the front line guys with my right hand to anchor myself. Protesting noisily, he braced himself and got ready to pull me back out if I overreached.
I could see the mark clearly and, although he half turned, he had nowhere to go and I got a nice hold on his jacket. No point in fucking turning away, matey, because you are coming out for sure. Thing is, he wasn’t turning to run… 14 | P a g e
Just at the last possible moment, I realised what the nice gentleman was up to. He’d turned to make himself thinner so his mate behind could strike at my now-exposed left side with a large kitchen knife.
The designated CQC anti-knife drill is fairly simple: three moves... One, avoid; Two, deflect and Three, disarm. The PTI’s schooled us as well as they could, but they did this bollocks day in, day out, and the little shits could do it blindfolded. All we got was two afternoon sessions of pain and humiliation, and no refresher. Actually, that’s not strictly true - refreshers weren’t compulsory, so no fucker ever bothered. Wish I’d bothered now.
I had no space to go to avoid the blade. The Anglian to my left was tight up against another snatcher and to move to the right would have meant taking the blade in my chest, and where was my stab vest? Hate the fucker, can’t move in it, simple... so it was not on my person. Amazing what life teaches you if you’re up to listening, but in this case I was a jammy bastard, to be sure.
As I let go, in sheer panic and in an attempt to block the incoming blade, the guy I was trying to drag out, having been mightily pulling back against me, recoiled right shoulder first into my assailant, striking him hard on the jaw with his elbow, and so the first thrust missed and hit the riot shield. Stunned but still standing, he tried again and this time I was a bit more ready. As the knife came in, I deflected as taught, away from my left side, but then clumsily I drove it downward and straight into my right inner thigh. My assailant, being far more determined than his ability deserved, yanked it smartly out and was just about to have a third go when a solid hard wood baton, wielded by a snarling Fen Tiger, split his fucking head open. Thank Christ we were both as inept as each other, else somebody might well have been hurt!
It’s a strange thing being stabbed. I’m not sure about being shot, but I’ve heard similar stories from those that have been. Truth is, I didn’t feel any pain 15 | P a g e at the time, either at the point of entry on my leg, or from the gash on my palm, caused when Paddy pulled the blade back out. The only sensations I had were that my leg was getting warm and my left hand was really sticky.
Mr Knife Man was now on the deck looking a bit of a mess. He was being attended to by a couple of lads who seemed to know what they were about, so I looked for the knife, as it would be evidence if the bastard died - frankly I didn’t care either way. But I was, however, curious as to what he was; age, size, all that shit. Turns out he wasn’t that old, about eighteen or so, and definitely not a Provo because they didn’t get caught up in front line riot order - they directed the events from safety, using runners. I thought, what the fuck were you thinking bringing a knife that size to a riot? Not as dangerous as a Molotov or side arm, granted, but a fucking sight more up close and personal. No, sonny boy, you asked for that beasting. I hoped his fucking head would fall off!
Then I spotted an orderly studying me intently. He shouted: ‘You all right, troop?’
‘Yeah I’m peachy mate,’ I replied. ‘But that bastard Paddy has covered me in his claret!’
Imagine my surprise and delight when the orderly pointed out that it was actually not Irish but English blood that I was covered in, my own to be precise. After a brief inspection, it was clear I wasn’t dying or in danger of such: a little blood goes a bastard long way and it all looked worse than it was, but anyway this Florence Nightingale reckoned that I should ‘Get yourself sharpish on that four-tonner and off to the MO, lad.’
This was presumably to limit the mess I was making on the pavement, because spilled blood is bad for tourism, and little old ladies with shiny patent shoes could easily slip arse over tit and break a hip. 16 | P a g e
But putting all that aside, I was now very aware of my injuries, and for some reason my leg decided I should begin to enjoy the results of severed nerve endings. Also, I was beginning to feel a little faint, so I did as the nice Soldier Man suggested.” 17 | P a g e
Chapter 2: Coulson Will Need Some Rations.
The walls throughout the MT (Motor Transport Unit) were painted green to about four feet up from the floor, and then beige above that, to the ceiling. Old cast iron radiators struggled hard against the damp northern wind as it found its way past the ancient metal-framed windows and ill-fitting doors. The regulars had a few precious gas heaters dotted around, but getting the refills was not easy and so mostly squaddies were cold, and, unless on duty, they limped around misshaped by layers of green jumpers and grey wool blankets. There was one TV and a pool table, coffee or tea was always available, and there were two hot meals a day.
Outside, in the main enclosure, a dozen and a half vehicles of various types were parked under reinforced concrete shelters. Although crudely constructed, these outbuildings were strong, and positioned to be hard to hit by mortars. Other buildings were designated as storage, and one was a fairly well-equipped and immaculate workshop, the realm of the REME.
All the interiors were painted in the same green and beige. Every morning, at zero seven exactly, the duty Cpl would take an inventory of the POL stores, (petrol, oil and lubricants) and transfer the data meticulously into the MT QM’s log. Often, a pair of Bedford MK four-ton trucks would be left running overnight with their side exhausts playing on the exposed diesel tanks of other transports. This helped to stop the contents freezing, or ‘waxing’, so as to maintain a constant state of deployment readiness. However, when the temperature got below freezing, the MK’s often stalled outside of the base while being driven, due to the filters clogging with waxed diesel. These vehicles would prove difficult to recover and it wasn’t unusual for vehicles to be abandoned for a while in hostile areas. 18 | P a g e
At least the MT duty Cpls and drivers were mostly inside. The worst duty by far was to be on ‘stag’. This was guard duty, and lasted usually for about four hours, and called for the most extreme vigilance at all times. During your ‘stag’ you scanned the horizon constantly, and listened intently for mechanical sounds; clunks, clangs and clicks (known as CC-ing). At night, sentries were issued with night vision goggles, but prolonged use could give the wearer a headache. Smoking was not allowed at any time.
Driver and reconnaissance specialist, Cpl Sally Haywood of the Women's Royal Army Corps, was playing pool with the only other female in the mess when the officer of the day called her to his office. “I’m going to have to send most of the Coy into Belfast tomorrow mid-morning. Amongst those going will be Cpl Guy Burrell EOD, who was due to spot for Coulson on that OP duty you were involved in last night. He will be back by early pm but Coulson will need some rations and a break long before that. So draw two C ration packs and some warm kit, and motor up there for about zero eight.
It’s not far, but you’ll be out on your own, so watch your back and keep contact with the Scout. I’ll send Burrell up ASAP. Oh, and please remember to park tactically, Cpl Haywood - about half a mile back should be fine. We’ll radio Coulson with an eta as soon as you depart.”
Although the MT was fairly casual most of the time, Cpl Haywood saluted “Sir” and did a smart about-turn. The patronising “Oh, and please remember” comment didn’t escape Haywood’s attention, but she was used to being patronised and there just wasn’t any point in rocking up against it. Along with most of the female soldiers serving at her time, she often felt as if she had something to prove in this man’s army. None of the women were about to give anybody any reason to doubt their competence or resolve.
Haywood wasn’t attractive in the classical sense, but had a strong handsome face to match her character. Her body was athletic and toned, and she was 19 | P a g e proud of her shape. Relationships between soldiers were not allowed, especially on tour, and this suited her. She saw herself as a career soldier and wasn’t ready to share that life with anyone, at least not yet. The sexual innuendos and sexist comments (which were constant) annoyed her immensely, as did the nickname Private Benjamin, but she was never going to show it.
This was the way it was, she couldn’t change it, and anyway, these lads would put their lives on the line for her if the situation called for them to do so, every single ignorant sexist pig bastard one of them. Along with professionalism, that was all that really mattered to Haywood.
L.Cpl. Coulson was okay as soldiers go, so she didn’t mind the ensuing task too much. There is very little conversation to be had during this kind of duty, it’s limited to minimal observational discourse. She surmised that they would take turns watching the new OP in the hillside until that skiver Burrell turned up, and then she would RTU in time for a hot bacon sandwich and a strong coffee. Better still, it was her turn for a hot bath instead of the usual tepid shower.
It occurred to her that these were simple pleasures she took for granted when on leave or at Catterick Garrison. She missed her soft bed and duvet, she missed riding her horse back in Regent’s Park. If only she could occasionally pop into the local shop and buy some decent toilet roll instead of having to use the standard tracing paper issue, which was as effective as a chocolate kettle. Some deodorant would be nice, too, but the local shop was marked Out Of Bounds to Army personnel, for safety reasons.
The next morning, at zero seven oh five, she collected the two ‘C’ ration packs she’d requested from the cookhouse the night before, signed for a new pair of leather gloves and thick wool socks from the QMS, and collected the vehicle duty pack from the MT clerk. Having no particular vehicular 20 | P a g e preference, she only checked the duty pack when she got outside - a SWB TK, numbered 04, was waiting for her. It was the same as all the others, a canvas- backed fridge on wheels that stank of diesel, stale tobacco and that particular earthy smell that emanates from soldiers returning to barracks after living in ditches.
She was relieved to discover almost half a tank of diesel present. One of the limited advantages of being a girl was that she could easily coerce the Cpl on night duty into replenishing the fuel when she returned. She would tolerate the standard ‘Woman Driver’ comments, smile sweetly and complain about the weight of the five-litre jerry cans. The result would be inevitable: the TK would get refilled.
On the 16th August 1982, the Army Board ruled that the WRAC should be considered as a combatant corps within the terms of the Geneva Convention, although its personnel should not be placed in positions that would result in direct combat. This policy of arming women was not made public. Similarly, training and practice were to be kept discreet. The ruling’s main aim was to allow servicewomen to bear arms for self-defence.
So, the last thing to do before departure was to go to the armoury with a copy of her orders and collect an L1A1 Self-Loading Rifle (SLR) and twenty 7.62 rounds.
At zero seven thirty, and with the weapon securely stowed in the rack behind the seats, Cpl Sally Haywood departed for the Badlands. 21 | P a g e
Chapter 3: Excused Boots.
“‘You were lucky, troop,’ the MO said. ‘Lucky’ meant that the wound in my thigh had missed my femoral artery by only half an inch. It still needed twelve stitches, though, and the cut on my left hand needed eight.
Unsurprisingly, this was not a pleasant experience for me, as earlier some clever bastard in the four-tonner thought it prudent to douse my leg with fucking iodine, so it was already smarting like a fucker when he started sewing. In order to avoid further discomfort, which would now inevitably descend on my nether regions in the terrifying shape of the post-injury tetanus jab, I protested heartily, and whined loudly that I’d already had a booster before shipping out. This did me no good whatsoever, falling on unsympathetic ears.
A butch Irish nurse, with a single long eyebrow, took great joy in ramming a blunt six-inch nail into my arse cheek - she even took a bastard run-up for effect. I swear she was a republican, the cow. Nice job on the leg though, nice big scar to flash in the pub back in GB.
Afterwards, and much to my disappointment, there was to be no comfortable ward for me to convalesce in, as it turned out I was walking wounded. Call this fucking walking? Sore as fuck... so I waited for a spare transport to take me back to base.
I sat there for four hours, in ruined combats stained with dark blood and iodine, and a massive bandage on my left hand. Without access to a fucking brewski, and no food either, it would all have been over bar the shouting if I’d been a smoker.
That night, back at Barracks, I spoke briefly with Cpl Haywood to confirm her destination for the next morning, and drew a little girly map to help her on 22 | P a g e her merry way. She was still pretty sure I was going to get sent up to relieve her, as apparently my wound was considered to be ‘only a scratch’. I showed her the MO’s note and everything, but she was a bit of a hard arse, that one, and wasn’t at all impressed.
Just like quite a few times before, I couldn’t help myself from imagining what she’d be like at the horizontal. Was she all efficient and clinical? Or did she let her hair down and scream like a train whistle? The day she shipped in, we all thought she’d get laid more times than a rubber egg but she’d resisted all the rampant Lotharios on offer, and the cocky bitch had even spurned my subtle advances, bless her little khaki socks. Good girl! Made me want to fuck her brains out all the more, though.
So, Coulson would get to spend the next day and possibly the last night with the lovely Private Benjamin, then. Lucky him, and tough shit for her, I thought. By now, Coulson had already been out in the cold for a night and day, and as I just said he had another cold night and day in front of him. I wondered if he knew why I hadn’t shown up. There was no way the 2IC was going to send me up into the badlands now, as I had a doctor’s note that stated clearly that I was to be watched for signs of shock and therefore ‘excused boots’.
There wasn’t any shock to be endured but I really wasn’t loving the pain, so like a true hero I grabbed a handful of aspirin from behind the bar in the mess, and washed down four of them with a lager. I’d write up a fictional post-riot and injury report in the morning, and dump my reeking combats on the QM.
Then, when confronted with the reams of admin that this action would inevitably bring forth, I’d claim that I was left-handed and painfully point at that very hand, now obviously completely bandaged - evidence that meant I clearly couldn’t utilise it for filling in RKR’s. After drawing the replacements, I would retire to the gentlemen’s club (also known as the mess). 23 | P a g e
With my leg still throbbing significantly, I reflected on the day’s events. You do that sort of thing when all the shit settles down, and pain does help to focus the mind. What a twat, stabbing myself in the thigh like that. I relived the action in my mind over and over. That cunt had come from nowhere and that’s how this shit occurs mostly. I wasn’t a bad shot, and definitely a bit of a scrapper, but I had survived this episode due to little else but luck, and you don’t live long enough to welcome your grandchildren relying on a battle plan like that.
Bollocks to that. I needed a rethink, I needed to go see them little prick PTI’s and get some extra skills in place. That’s when I made the life-changing decision to get all Kung Fu’d up and black-belted; for fuck’s sake, Grasshopper, how hard could it be?
The next morning, from inside my pit, I heard Cpl Haywood fucking off at stupid o’clock. Condensation ran freely down the windows and the painted brick walls and, as the massive corrugated iron gates closed behind her departing pert little arse, I reached over toward the small wooden table adjacent my bed, and grabbed another couple of aspirin. The glass of water next to the reading lamp had frozen solid in the night, so I swallowed the tablets unaided.
As the whine of the TK gear box disappeared into the morning greyness, I thought to myself ‘off you go Tin Knickers, give Cpl Coulson my regards, and I will see you young lovers bright and curly some time tomorrow!’ Then I rolled over and waited for the aspirin to work.” 24 | P a g e
Chapter 4: Shooting Dogs.
The bleak countryside just north of Ballymena was green and ancient, littered with long, meandering lines of dry stone walling which mocked the sharp inclines and ringed lonely hilltop copses. Whoever had decided the borders and complex rules that governed their tracks had long since departed. Occasionally, a solitary wisp of smoke would suggest a cottage which, without the smoke trail, would melt into the fog and rambling overgrowth. It had always been a hard life out here, not impossible but very dependent on animals and back-breaking effort. If it was worth all that trouble, then the returns weren’t exactly obvious, at least not to outsiders.
Back in the town, the same last names would repeatedly appear on shop signs or memorials and on grave stones. These communities knew the rules of hardship and obeyed without complaint, and so endured. Many had never known an Ireland in peace and kept their own business, turning a blind eye when masked strangers from either faction used their outbuildings for God only knows what. When strange containers or equipment appeared without warning in these buildings, they knew to avoid the area for a while.
Much of this was never discussed openly, as nobody was quite sure who was who; although many had suspicions about certain individuals, it wasn’t sensible to share. The older locals didn’t care where their leaders dwelt or what their religion was. They just bowled along, attended their particular churches on a Sunday, and most kept a live poteen still somewhere, out of sight of the local bobbies.
26 year old L.Cpl. Dave Coulson 321 Coy RAOC EOD had been lying more or less in the same spot for nearly seven hours when he first heard the dogs.
The observation post he was remotely guarding was directly in front of his position, with a slightly lower elevation in regard to the road, and about one 25 | P a g e hundred and fifty yards distant. He couldn’t see much of the road and only saw or heard any traffic sporadically through the trees on his left.
He was cold, tired, hungry, and spitting feathers, as it had been a long night. He was single, as were most of the Felixes, but he missed his parents and younger sister back in Newcastle. His Mother had not been a happy bunny when he announced his transfer to 321 from the Engineers. “Are you really sure, dear? Wouldn’t you be better staying on and completing your apprenticeship?” Dad had just told him to keep his head down and not take chances - he’d been an RSM in the Parachute regiment and couldn’t hide his pride at his son’s passing-out parade.
Mothers never get this whole man adventure bollocks, he thought, and now his little sister was considering joining R-Signals, Mum must be wishing she’d had more influence over us than Dad. Anyway, Coulson considered that he had a trade for which there would always be a large demand: ‘Such is this world and its inability to get the fuck on with itself.’
He had only received two short radio communications from HQ; one to say that Cpl Burrell would not be back on the first day and that there would be a temp relief sent up ASAP, and one at zero six hundred on the second day to tell him to expect the relief within the hour.
Up until now, the whole exercise had been a complete waste of time, serving only to make him colder than he could remember ever being. He had been reluctant to man the OP in the morning, as planned, because he would have been over-exposed without a second observer. So he stayed put and waited. It was now eleven fifteen.
The dogs – at least two, maybe three - were getting closer. The shrill whistles of the men, and their shouts of command, seemed to be all around him. It was impossible to plot an exit route without some visual intelligence, and 26 | P a g e that would surely mean exposing his position, so what to do? The OP was bound to be discovered by the dogs, stinking of British Army as it did. Those dogs were hard-wired to recognise that very smell. The SAS had ways of masking their tracks during deep covert operations, apparently, but Coulson wasn’t trained for deep covert operations - he was an observer bomb disposal engineer and this shit was way above his skill set. Cpl Coulson flicked the selector on his SLR from safety to repetition and gently engaged the cocking handle to chamber a round. No choice: he was going to have to chance it and have a look about.
Every British soldier that served in Northern Ireland was issued with a set of colour-coded cards which specified how to act and what to say in certain situations such as, ‘when arresting suspects’, or ’how to search a building’. The instructions on the yellow card contained specific instructions to be followed when opening fire on a suspected enemy. Warnings were to be issued, to allow suspects to surrender. Soldiers could only shoot without warning "if there is no other way to protect themselves or those whom it is their duty to protect from the danger of being killed or seriously injured".
However, the yellow card didn’t cover having an excited Irish wolfhound snapping at your bollocks, so he braced himself and slowly rose to a single kneeling position. He brought his SLR up and worked the butt tightly into his right shoulder; using slow deliberate movements he began to scan the immediate area from left to right, using his gun sight as a telescope.
Having failed to located anyone in his field of fire, and feeling a tangible relief that he wasn’t going to have to shoot a dog, he decided to swiftly exit the area rearward, and go back down the soft fern pathway that meandered through a small wood and broke cover on a bend in the road. This was the best way out as, due to the ferns, even a clod-hopping Geordie like him could traverse it, virtually without making a sound. From there, he would follow the 27 | P a g e road, hidden by an adjacent stone wall just short of shoulder height. If any vehicles came along the road during his flight he would hear them long before they saw him, and he could crouch easily out of sight until they had passed.
This was pretty much the route that any expected relief would use, so he stood a good chance of bumping into them if they were on their way in. And, if unimpeded, he would be at the collection point in less than fifteen minutes, and could radio in from there if not met.
Decision made, he lowered his SLR, moved his weight onto his rear leg, stood upright, turned to leave and found himself staring directly into the eyes of a figure in a ski mask. The figure was holding a shotgun on his hip and it was pointing at Cpl Coulson’s face. 28 | P a g e
Chapter 5: Are You OK, Missy?
The narrow lanes of Antrim County to the south-east of Ballymena are not particularly busy, except maybe in the early mornings as the farmers drive out to tend to their animals. The lanes are criss-crossed with field and farmyard access points, which spring up unexpectedly and mostly without the gift of signpost or nameplate. In all but fog, the county is strikingly wild and beautiful, with only an occasional hint of the discontentment that had darkened its history.
The other thing about the narrow lanes of Antrim County to the south-east of Ballymena is that they are not suited to four-ton Bedford TK’s, and Cpl Sally Haywood was regretting not asking for a Land Rover instead. It was now zero eight ten and she was late. The locals don’t hurry, don’t see the need, and slow down to a crawl when they have an Army vehicle behind them. In this way, Haywood’s progress had been frustratingly impeded.
She was not alone, however, as above her was a 659 Squadron AAC Scout helicopter utilising the latest Heli-Tele aerial surveillance system, watching and communicating with several transport movements in the area. Although the patrol area was large, this strategy had worked surprisingly well, and, combined with regular covert observation operations, those plotting the illegal movement of arms and personnel had been forced to use the cover of darkness. Because of this, most units operating in Antrim felt safer during daylight excursions than they had for a long time.
The Scout could also be used to carry four troops sitting in the rear compartment, with their feet resting on the skids. Working in twos, the Scouts could drop an eight-man, well-equipped patrol who could set up snap VCPs (Vehicle Check Points) to order. 29 | P a g e
So it was extremely unlucky when the engine of Haywood’s TK stuttered and stalled halfway under an overgrown bridge that ran under the disused Antrim to Bleachgreen railway line. Feeling a dramatic power drop, Haywood put the gearbox in neutral and coasted the TK tight into the verge, leaving sufficient passing space for the small green Vauxhall Chevette that had been stuck behind her (for a change) since the crossroads, two miles back. The car carried on past and flashed its hazards in gratitude before disappearing around a blind bend.
The standard drill in these circumstances was to radio in and report, but the signal on her walkie was pretty low. Cpl Haywood opened the driver side window and turned her head upward to see if she could locate a Scout to signal, but the sky was cloudy and she couldn’t get a visual. She was now Soldier Alone in Trouble, and the TK, which stood out like a cow pat on a red carpet, stubbornly refused to start. Better off hunkered down outside, away from the vehicle.
Haywood donned her helmet and pulled her weapon down from the rack. From a webbing pouch, she produced two boxes of ten 7.62 rounds, removed the rifle’s magazine, thumbed the rounds into it and reattached the mag. It was zero eight thirty when she alighted the vehicle, crossed the road and climbed a sharp incline into the edge of a small wood. It wasn’t long before she was missing the inadequate TK cab heater as, even here, the wind was bitterly cold.
As she sat cross-legged, with her gloved hands under her jacket, her weapon laid across her lap, and her collar up blocking as much of the bite as it was able, she really was at a loss as to what to do next. Even when she was eventually missed, it would take a fair while for a MK rescue tow truck to find her, even if any man bastard thought to bring one. She was about twelve miles out of base, eight as the crow flies, and she had a good map and plenty 30 | P a g e of daylight. Just like the ICFT (Infantry Combat Fitness Test) she had completed in week seventeen basic training at Warcop battle camp in Cumbria: eight miles with full kit, weapon and 35lb pack in two hours or under. Problem solved. Off you go then, girl.
Haywood made back to the TK and retrieved a map from the dashboard. As she shouldered her SLR and locked the cab she noted the time as zero nine oh five - plenty of time to make it for dinner and then bend Burrell’s fat lazy arse into going out for Coulson. REME could deal at their leisure with the TK, if any of it was left. And the Felix would have to give it the once-over for boobies before the REME could recover it. Somehow, though, all this would be laid squarely at her door. The old army adage of ‘If it breaks while you’re standing next to it, it’s your fault’ was based on bitter experience, and she knew she would probably pull an extra duty.
“Are you OK, missy?” Cpl Haywood was no longer alone. The shout had come from the road. Instinctively, she shouldered her SLR and aimed it in that direction. “Jeez, there’s not a need for that, love. Calm you away down.” Haywood stood her ground. “Stay where you are, stand still and show me your hands,” she replied. “I’m not alone.”
There were three of them. Two were middle-aged and fairly smartly dressed men, the type you might find in a country pub on a Sunday hogging the bar and bragging about golf. The third was a child of about ten, a girl dressed for school.
“We’re on the way to take Roisin here to her school, saw you broken down. Thought you might be needing a wee hand or a push! Lower your gun, missy - you’re after scaring the child.”
Haywood did as she was told, but kept the weapon ready, well aware of how this might look to a ten-year-old girl. “How far is the next town or village?” 31 | P a g e
The fatter of the two replied. “Not more than about a mile, missy. We’ll take you. There’s a phone in the pub where you can get some help. Did you say you’re not alone?”
Cpl Haywood was cold, and didn’t relish the cross-country tramp she’d set herself up for, not really. This could work, they’re kosher - she was sure of it, what with the child and all.
“OK, thanks. I’d appreciate that. Where are you parked?” She hoped they wouldn’t spot that she’d avoided the question about not being alone.
“Off we go this way then, missy. What’s your name?”
“Haywood,” she snapped. This information was not really that hot, as she had a printed name label on her combat jacket.
The girl looked sad. Her large green eyes seem to be asking for something. She stared intently at Haywood like she was some kind of monster that would eat her up if she had been alone. Haywood’s nervous smile was not returned, so she looked away, re-slung her rifle and followed the trio toward their car.
The thing that made her realise something was wrong was the sight of the transit van facing them when they cleared the apex of the corner. Next to it was the green Vauxhall Chevette that had passed earlier. Somehow, one of the men had got around behind her. She was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable. From the car, a young woman appeared, and called out: “Roisin, Roisin come you here, honey.” The girl detached herself from the fat man’s hand and ran to the woman.
Too late, Haywood reached for the strap of her SLR, but couldn’t get it off of her shoulder, as the other man had grabbed the strap and pulled it into her back. She half turned and attempted to strike at his head, but the fat man had pulled a pistol from his jacket and held it against her temple. “That’ll do 32 | P a g e now, Missy. You’re coming with us and there’s not a fecking thing in hell you can do about it.”
As they disarmed her and started to bundle her through the side door of the Transit, she glimpsed the young girl looking at her from the passenger seat of the car as it drove away.
Once inside the Transit she would be lost. She knew it and started to struggle. Her helmet was over her eyes and the chin strap cut into her throat. One of the two men struck her hard on the side of the face and it felt like her jaw had exploded. The blow scrambled her thoughts and stole the fight from her. Now inside the van, she didn’t attempt to stop them as they tied her hands behind her back and slipped a sack over her head.
She could hardly breathe. Hands searched inside her jacket and emptied the pockets. Suddenly one of her kidnappers shouted: “I have something, a sketch, a kind of map, I’m thinking.” Cpl Haywood felt her heart sink. They’d found Burrell’s sketch of the OP position. 33 | P a g e
Chapter 6: All Hands.
“I rose about half ten on the morning of the bombing. I wouldn’t have, necessarily, but hunger overcame weariness. I also needed to visit the heads somewhat urgently.
I had to be really complimentary to the cooks to get breakfast at that time of day, and it wasn’t really worth the effort. But one learns to take one’s nourishment where one fucking can. After which I showered and got my hand and leg redressed. We didn’t have an MO at base but we did have a Private Debra Edwards who had a face like a cat licking chillies off a nettle. She had healing hands, though, and was often graced with our ailments and suchlike: there’s a lesson to be learned here about making a rod for your own back. Too late, Edwards had learned it.
At midday I was sat in the mess, watching the news. Our glorious Prime Minister-ess had narrowly missed having her tits blown off in Brighton in October and now she was all about making peace in Ireland. It was the topic of the hour.
Now, you may think me cynical, but I do wonder how much nearly getting your tits blown off gives you a different perspective on certain issues. I wondered if she was as good at stopping fights as she was at starting them. Remember the Falklands in April 1982? Course you do. After it was all over, I spent three months out there, freezing cold, with my thumb up my arse, making safe. And do you know what? Nothing fucking changes!
Then it was all about lunch and a quick sleep, just on the off-chance Haywood was correct in her assumption that my ass was badland-bound that evening. Stranger things had happened, and it pays to be prepared, but then at thirteen ten hours the shit truly hit the fan, and the depot cleared like a Corporal’s mess on bill day. 34 | P a g e
As I said, the unit was short-staffed and, to compound things, three of the lads were away enjoying some advance training. Our unit strength stood at five EOD specialists, two signallers, two mechanics, some WRAC and a couple of sections of Blues and Royals with the usual compliment of NCO’s and Officers. Sometimes we had pilots from 659 Squadron AAC drop in and stay a while, if they absolutely had to. So when the ‘Fetch Felix’ call came in it was all hands on deck. Actually, not quite ‘all’ hands - I was walking wounded and didn’t attend.” 35 | P a g e
Chapter 7: COULSON. D?
The town was generic, typical of the area. If you found yourself in any one of these towns you would be able to navigate its streets without problem. Church Lane, High Street, Lower Farm Lane, The Belfast road, The Newry road, etc...
There were always a number of small inns, a police station, local stores selling bakery items from Ditty's, a surgery, vets and a hairdresser. Sometimes there was a Dunnes, where you could get clothing and limited fashion items. At one-thirty the town centre was fairly quiet, but that wasn’t really of concern to the men in the white Transit van that drove in from the south-west.
It is said that all things everywhere are on some kind of a list. This town, this square containing this memorial had been on such a list for some time and, due to a recent stroke of luck, a plan that had been drawn up involving this town was being executed.
Just outside the town, the van had pulled off the main road in preparation for its visit. The number plates had been changed, and the passenger in the rear of the van was partly stripped and redressed with a harness. Attached by bailing wire to this harness were three neat rows of four two-inch by four- inch green wax-coated paper packages containing Semtex H. Barely conscious, the soldier was heavy and hard to manoeuvre in the crowded space in the rear of the van. The preparation was taking too much time, and a sense of urgency began to prevail. Two large dogs shared the space and watched impassively.
Once the harness was in place, detonators were pushed into the tops and a wire loom was attached. Two ends of the loom were left bare, ready for another component, whilst two more disappeared into a tobacco tin which held some components of a remote-controlled model aircraft. All the wires 36 | P a g e met in a canvas bag which held seven large batteries. Then the soldier’s overcoat was replaced - there was no sense in giving too many visual clues away. On the left breast of the coat was a green label with black embroidered lettering. The label read ‘COULSON. D.’
In the front of the van, one man holding a torch in the dim light of the afternoon assisted a second man in assembling a small plastic tube containing mercury. This was to be the last item placed on the soldier, and nobody wanted to rush this stage.
When all preparation was deemed to be complete, and after first scanning the cloudy sky for the presence of Army Air Corps, the men pulled on dark navy overalls and ski masks, set off for the square, and parked by the memorial. In an instant, all four were out. Two stood watch, one brandishing a shotgun and the other a newly acquired British Army Self-Loading Rifle. The other two dragged a semi-conscious fifth man from the side door and, with effort, secured him to the memorial obelisk, wired in the final component, pulled the man’s hood off, and ran back to the van.
The man with the SLR walked casually up the steps to the stricken figure. “Are yee awake, Son? Good, now listen well. You have been a guest of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. You are assisting us in making a statement on behalf of the oppressed people of the six counties of the north of Ireland. For this we thank you and may God rest your soul.” He leant over the soldier and carefully removed a wooden peg from the small plastic tube. “We’re away off now, as we wouldn’t want to get a parking ticket. One more thing - if I were you, I’d stay perfectly still.”
The man sauntered with confidence back to the van, pausing momentarily to wave to a small group of school children waiting for a bus. Nobody tried to stop the van, or noted any details as it drove away. Any witnesses that had been there began hurrying to take cover and within minutes the square was 37 | P a g e deserted. Somewhere close by, a code-worded telephone call was being made. Nobody noticed that only three of the four men had left in the van.
L.Cpl. Coulson had regained consciousness. His head was pounding and the bailing wire on his wrists was cutting into his flesh. The words he had just heard began to sink in and the full gravity of his situation hit hard. He knew the setup, it wasn’t rocket science - mercury held level in a channel, just enough of it to stay in the channel while the container remained level. A bare wire was immersed into the liquid metal on one side. On the other side, another bare wire waited clear of the channel. When the container was tilted, the mercury spilled from the channel and washed over the second wire, completing a circuit, end of story.
This was proving to be quite a common setup in hostage situations; crude and effective, but actually fairly easy to disarm if you could get at the device. Of course, detonation may well depend on which way the container was tilted but he wasn’t about to take a 50/50 chance on that.
Even though it was bitterly cold, he was sweating profusely, and that was going to make him even more uncomfortable in due course. ‘Come on, you knacker,’ he thought. ‘Get a grip.’
Slowly, just moving his head and neck, he brought his chin to his chest and surveyed the bomb. His combat jacket was too tight over the harness to be done up, so the mercury switch was clearly visible.
No clue as to which way a tilt of the switch would set the bomb off, but the wires entering it were carelessly exposed. This bomb could be disarmed without trouble.
His spirits were lifted momentarily, until he saw the side quarter section of a tobacco tin. Instantly, an electric shock of fear and realisation ran the length of his spine... 38 | P a g e
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouted out loud, as if such a gesture of profanity would make a difference. This was not good. This was a control wire or, worse still, a remote.
‘Okay, calm the fuck down and think. What is likely to happen next?’
The Provo bastard that stuck him here, or one of his oppos, was probably right now phoning the coded warning in, as they would definitely want a nice big audience for this stunt. The response time of initial call to Felix despatch was about eight minutes... But where, precisely, was he?
Coulson began to survey his surroundings, tried to get a bearing from some street or shop signs. He didn’t specifically recognise the town. The sun was still fairly high above the horizon; it must be about thirteen hundred. So, he’d been travelling for about an hour. Depending on which direction the Provos had taken, it was reasonable to assume Felix would arrive in no more than ninety minutes.
He was now getting colder. The wind that blew into the square cut through his open jacket, and he was quite high up on the memorial, which exposed him even more. They’d taken his gloves, so he clenched and unclenched his bitterly cold fingers in an attempt to circulate some blood. The Provos would often use the cold as part of their hostage strategy. It made rescuers hurry, miss things, and make mistakes. 39 | P a g e
Chapter 8: Haywood and the Heatround.
From the age of eight, Sally Alison Haywood had shunned the company of other girls, liked to keep her hair short and spikey, and enjoyed her nickname of ‘Sally-Anne’ because it soon got shortened to ‘Ali’. Her marks were pretty good at school and she was considered artistic. Her parents and her upbringing were safe and predictable, she always knew she would move on fairly quickly and by the age of seventeen she was desperate to leave home.
Her first complete sexual encounter was planned by her in detail and happened just a week after her eighteenth birthday. She felt this was the correct time, as she considered herself emotionally ready. Sally Alison Haywood liked to be in control, and continued to be until Sean Davis, a metal worker from Farnham, broke her heart and forced somewhat of a rethink. It was 1981, and Sally was an art student in the town. She considered long and hard why she felt so bad and, for once, could not formulate a suitable explanation.
Sally’s degree went well, and in the summer of ‘83 she began to seek employment as a teacher in London. However, this profession - although obviously safe and placed squarely in the ‘Pleased Parent’ folder - bored her intensely. Was this all there was?
She took her lunch, rain or shine, in Regents Park, usually alone. Sally wasn’t unpopular but the tide of small talk from the other staff at breaks aggravated her. If asked, she explained that this park ritual set her energy back on course. However, she did have an ulterior motive for these trips.
On April 30th 1980, and not far from where Sally lunched, six armed men stormed the Iranian Embassy in London, taking twenty-six people hostage. Six days later, the SAS ended the siege, killing five terrorists and capturing one. It 40 | P a g e was the operation that propelled the SAS into the public eye and firmly established them as the world’s best counter-terrorist unit.
Sally had watched ‘Operation Nimrod’, via the live television coverage of the siege, with fascination and pride. Afterwards, she had tentatively enquired about joining the Special Air Service but was told that ‘Women are not allowed to be exposed to direct combat’. Sally had fled the recruiting office infuriated, and had begun to consider other options. One of these options was the ulterior motive for Sally’s lunchtime excursions to Regents Park.
The Albany Street Barracks, officially known as the Regent's Park Barracks, was home to the Blues and Royals. The unit regularly exercised their horses in the park and Sally had begun to recognise certain individuals in their ranks. After a while, it became normal for them to covertly exchange nods or winks. Then, one afternoon, a crumpled slip of paper had landed at her feet. On the paper was a phone number.
A passionate and energetic affair with the trooper from the ‘Tin Bellies’ only ended when he was posted to the Falklands, but her time with him had taken her periodically into the barracks for ceremonial dinners, presentations and lectures. She had become totally immersed in the history and life of the regiment. Sally Alison Haywood was completely hooked.
Typical of the woman she was, and utterly furious at the IRA bombings in Hyde Park and Regents Park in July of 1982, Sally found herself at the Women's Royal Army Corps recruitment offices, signed on for nine years and joined the autumn recruit intake. Only after passing the medical and completing selection did she tell her parents, then resign her teaching job.
Driver and Reconnaissance specialist, Cpl Sally Haywood of the Women's Royal Army Corps was now completely alone. She had never felt so alone. She 41 | P a g e felt disgusted that she had fallen into the hands of the PIRA so easily, but mostly she felt helpless and humiliated.
She had nobody else to blame but herself and she knew it. As she recalled the events of the last two hours, she found herself fighting back tears: not tears of fear or sadness, these were tears of frustration.
‘Weak bitch, weak useless bitch... Proving every bastard man jack right about women in the army!’
‘You are NOT going to cry, you are going to sort this out, and you are going to get these bastards for making a fool of you!!’
The man’s breath had been a mixture of stale tobacco and coffee, as he pressed his triumphant face into hers, forehead against forehead, mixing sweat, sharing air.
“Are yee fearful, Missy? I’m sorry about the wee right hand yee got back in the lane, but you weren’t being polite and I was upset at yee not accepting our offer of hospitality.” So it had been him that had struck her.
“Go fuck yourself,” snapped Haywood. “I’m not scared of a cowardly dickless waster who hits a woman while she’s being held. Untie me and then see what you get.”
The man pulled away and wiped the spit from his cheek. “As much as I’d love to oblige you, Missy...”
“It’s Haywood. My name’s fucking Haywood!”
“As much as I’d love to oblige you, fucking Hay--wood... we’ve both a wee task to complete. I must be away soon to mine and then you must attend to yours.” 42 | P a g e
A second man, standing behind her, chuckled at his comrade’s dry response. He was working on something metallic just out of her field of vision, and he whistled tunelessly as he tinkered. The fat man continued to speak quietly, with undisguised menace cutting through his thick northern accent.
“Now, the other lads, are not as... not as much of a gentleman as I am. I suppose they’re younger, you see - different generation, new-fangled values. They have hinted that you, having seen our jolly Irish faces and all, will forget our kindness and seek a terrible vengeance. They say that we should send you back to whatever filthy Regiment you came from in a small packing case.”
He motioned toward two men, high on the ridge to their right. They were half carrying, half dragging a third figure, hands tied and hooded, toward the path to the road. Two dogs were snapping at the man’s calves, barking happily.
“As you can see, we have your partner in crime all trussed up and ready to serve the cause, so I reckon that you might deserve a wee break.” He turned back to her and bent down, pulling her roughly toward him until she was slightly out of the OP which Coulson had been guarding. With one fleshy hand, he pushed her head down between her legs so she couldn’t move or see what he was doing with his other hand. “Bring it,” he barked.
When he yanked her back upright and returned her to the OP, there was an additional item behind her, which pushed painfully into the small of her back. He then pulled her combat jacket over her shoulders and opened her shirt.
”Get off of me, you fuck!” she screamed loudly.
“Now, now, my dear, it isn’t what yee think. I’ve loosened your heavy clothing so yee can fully enjoy the Irish climate, open your lungs - it’s good for you, and the little discomfort you’re feeling is a wee present we liberated from one of your comrades a month ago. Have a feel, Cpl Haywood. Go on - don’t be shy.” 43 | P a g e
Her hands were tied by her sides with wire that also wrapped around her waist. As her legs were bound also, she couldn’t reach behind.
“Ah yes, sorry. Let me give you a wee hand.”
He grabbed her left shoulder and turned her until she could almost see the obstacle. Her left hand brushed against a metal tube and, combined with her partial sighting, she knew without question she was sitting on an unspent M2 Carl Gustav 84mm anti-tank heat round. The man settled her back down.
“Ok? Aye right, I know this is a bit of a bodge up. We’ve wired a detonator into the nasty end and my associate here has connected it to a spring release mechanism and a battery, it’s a kind of a pressure-controlled trigger if you like. To be honest, lover, we’re not sure what will happen as we’ve ne’er tried this before. Sure it might not even work.”
“How is this giving me a break?” Haywood was furious. She knew she was being taunted, and that feeling was burying any fear she’d felt under a whole world of indignation.
“Because your wee life is now in your hands, Cpl Haywood. Not mine - yours! Now then, we’re away on other business, and you’re going to start to get pretty cold sure. So, die of hypothermia or take a chance on our wee bodge up. It’s the best break I can give you, Missy, and you should be grateful sure.”
The man looked up and nodded to his companion.
Without warning, the second man pulled a hood over Haywood’s head, and then she was aware that they were both lowering something quite heavy on top of her legs, which pushed her lower body harder into the hole.
“We don’t have a blanket for yee, so this will have to do!” laughed the second man. 44 | P a g e
Just before they left, she felt one of them reach behind her. She heard a dull metallic click... and they left her alone. 45 | P a g e
Chapter 9: Haywood’s Gone Walkabout.
The Scout Helicopter on patrol that morning was piloted by Flight Sergeant Jeremy (Jez) Lander, 659 Squadron AAC. He and his engineer/co-pilot had been watching eight transport movements over a twenty miles radius. Their patrol was due to end in just under half an hour, and all but one of the transports - a TK - had been accounted for. It was now eleven thirty hours.
Flt Sgt Lander generally had only scant information about what the vehicles in his watch were up to or where they were going, and quite often radios malfunctioned, or drivers didn’t bother to keep in contact. But it was customary to radio in to AAC HQ near the end of a patrol to report any events and to get weather details around base landing zone. After reporting loss of contact with the errant transport, he was told to ‘Stand by’.
The Scout Helicopter was not considered a comfortable aircraft to fly, but it was responsive and sturdy, the pilots could throw them about and, while hurtling twenty feet off of the ground, their rotors would trim the foliage off of the sides of tall trees with impunity. Because many a young soldier had lost their breakfasts while being treated to such flying skills, the crews now insisted that passengers rode with their helmets held on their chests, at the ready.
At eleven forty-eight, the call came in from HQ that the missing vehicle was indeed a TK four-tonner, and that it hadn’t called in to its own HQ either. After requesting the expected destination to which the rogue TK had been en route, Flt Sgt Lander began the search.
At Twelve twenty-five, the Scout’s flight engineer spotted some suspicious ground activity. There were vehicles parked along a narrow road adjacent to a railway line and there were clearly several people, seemingly quite busy, under the bridge there. 46 | P a g e
“Probably hare coursing,” said Lander. “But we’ll buzz them anyway.”
He banked the Scout sharp right, descended and, scanning intently for power lines, wind direction indication and any other unexpected prospective events that would be likely to ruin their afternoon, he hovered his machine close enough for the Engineer to get a good look through his bins.
“Thar she blows,” said the Engineer. “The activity appears to be locals claiming salvage rights.”
“Any sign of a driver?”
“That’s a neg, Flight!”
Having quickly spotted the hovering helicopter, the people on the ground pulled hoods or collars high and rapidly dispersed in as many directions as they could, some carrying batteries, parts of the engine. Others were rolling wheels in front of them and hurriedly bundling them into the backs of pickups. There was nothing the Scouts crew could do here, as the driver was obviously long gone. The engineer called it in as the Scout began to climb.
Within minutes, Lander had the Scout gunning to where the TK had been destined to arrive, with the Engineer scanning the road and repeatedly attempting to raise the lost driver on his radio. The Scout kept below the tree line as it made its approach, the trees and wind masking its exact position and approach to the rough area where Burrell and Coulson’s OP was reported to be. As they rounded the last bend, there - partially hidden in the trees - they saw a green Vauxhall Chevette.
“We need to get some bodies on the ground. Apparently the driver was on their way to liaise with somebody from an OP located somewhere down there and we won’t be able to spot any OP from up here,” said Lander. “Best head off before we compromise a bad situation any more than we already 47 | P a g e have, radio it in and get a heads-up on what HQ want us to do now.” It was now thirteen oh five.
Now things began to happen quickly. Earlier, at twelve forty-eight, 321 Coy HQ was notified of an incident north-east of Antrim which urgently required their skill set. The majority of the Felix unit was on its way within minutes, and was well clear of base when the second call from AAC HQ came in. Major Cameron, the Second in Command, had been the one who had notified them earlier that one of their TK’s was out of communication, and he was alarmed to be told that the TK had now been spotted abandoned. The HQ were asking him what he wanted them to do. Thinking on his feet, Cameron requested a Scout fly to his HQ location with room for a passenger. He also used a coded phrase that indicated he required additional ‘specialised’ personnel and then called Cpl Guy Burrell into his office.
“Haywood’s gone walkabout. I’ve just received a message from 659 Squadron Army Air Corps HQ. One of their Scouts has located her abandoned TK about twelve miles out. She didn’t make the OP.
“I hadn’t been overly bothered when neither she nor Coulson checked in this morning, but now I think we’ve got a problem. I’m going to need you to guide a reconnaissance mission to try to find her and check on Coulson, as we can’t raise him either. There’s a chopper due here soon, so get booted and suited and stand by.”
Cpl Guy Burrell threw on his battledress and boots, drew a side arm and some 9mm rounds, and ran to the large ‘H’ painted on the tarmac of the main square. Although he had been a reluctant guest of the AAC a number of times before, he briefly glanced at his Red Card (one of five issued, of various colours and bearing important information. This one contained instructions on the drills for entering and leaving helicopters). When the AAC landed, Burrell noticed with some surprise that it was one of a pair. 48 | P a g e 49 | P a g e
Chapter 10: The Ballad of Rosie Coyle.
Born in Portadown, County Armagh, in 1964, Rosie Coyle didn’t come from a traditionally large Irish family. She grew up very close to her only brother Brendan who, being four years older, seemed to her to be everything a big brother should be. He had taught Rosie how to play tin whistle at the age of ten. By her teens, she had graduated to the flute and was regularly playing in sessions in Armagh and sometimes even in Dublin. Brendan played guitar, singing all the standard Irish folk songs about heroes and martyrs both present and long dead, while Rosie kept the melody and their father played bodhrán. All in all, Rosie’s life was satisfactory, and although flattered by and curious of the lads that watched her, dewy-eyed, when she performed, she hadn’t felt the need for the complications and restrictions of a long-term relationship.
Rosie was not tall, but her sultry expression hid a feisty temperament that matched her long flaming red hair, of which she was immensely proud. She was a Celt through and through, and although mostly happy-go-lucky could be a force to be reckoned with. Rosie Coyle was not one to take an insult sitting down and, if slighted, she would speak slowly, picking her words like ripe chillies while using her dark emerald eyes to cut a line straight through you. She embraced an ancient culture that had produced and shaped her, and was Green to the core and a child of Mary. As for the ‘troubles’, Rosie Coyle kept her opinions close to her heart. She had few Loyalist acquaintances, that is to say protestant people she knew, and as she was in the Catholic minority she tolerated them. It was necessary in Portadown to get along, as the Orange and the Green often worked side by side in the supermarkets and factories.
Deep feelings would often boil over, though, as every July the Portadown ‘Loyalist Orange Lodge’ marched home from their church service at Drumcree 50 | P a g e down the now largely Nationalist Garvaghy Road. Unlike a hard core of the Catholic residents of Portadown, the Coyle family would mostly ignore this statement, but they felt the provocation of it deeply.
Rosie knew that Brendan occasionally ran errands for the Provos, but she trusted in his judgment about when to say no, and not to get in too deep. Brendan was passionate about current affairs and was working hard for the chance of a place in Trinity College Dublin, where he hoped to study law, so she was sure he’d soon leave the IRA and their struggle well behind. Rosie’s outlook was that the situation would probably not be altered significantly in her lifetime, so it was best to keep a low profile and eventually, now that the employment opportunities were improving, she would move with her family into the South.
Her beloved brother would get to know the city and forge a path for the Portadown Coyles to follow.
Brendan was nineteen when he was killed. It was 1979. When the devastating news came, Rosie and her father were in the front room of their small terraced house in Sandy Row. Rosie’s mother and younger sister Roisin were upstairs readying for Roisin’s bedtime. Suddenly, there was noise of a large engine out in the street, followed by heavy doors slamming and a sharp knock on the door. It was just after eight thirty in the evening.
Rosie’s father stood slowly, looked toward Rosie and brought his index finger up to his lips. He motioned to her to crouch down under the table and made for the front door. Upstairs, Rosie’s mother had already grabbed her youngest child to her chest and now they were both lying on the floor in the back room, Roisin snuggled up into her mother’s arms, unaware of the fear of the moment. 51 | P a g e
The fear was more than justified. House calls at this time of night were never welcome, and it could have meant absolutely anything.
As soon as the door was off the latch, Rosie’s father saw two uniformed men of the Royal Ulster Constabulary and knew something had happened to Brendan. A deep feeling of dread began to rise in his belly.
“William Coyle?”
Rosie’s father just nodded, eyes now downcast.
“You’re needing to come with us.”
At the inquest, the Coyle family was officially informed that Brendan had been one of four in a vehicle running guns across the border. The driver had refused to stop when challenged at a road block on the A3 Monaghan road, and the soldiers at the road block had been forced to open fire. Brendan had died instantly and two of the others died later in Royal Victoria. The driver had survived and had been recognised as being involved in the sectarian murder of a Loyalist farmer. It was official and therefore it was final. There would be no appeal or questioning of the verdict: Death by Misadventure.
The combined grief and fury that consumed Rosie as she read the indifferent four lines of news print that heralded the circumstances of the violent demise of Brendan Coyle completely and eternally changed her. She wasn’t ever to play her flute again, because it wasn’t to be music that consumed her and fulfilled her now. It was to be a different art altogether. 52 | P a g e
Chapter 11: We’ll Swot the Flies.
“So Haywood had got lost then, and there they were sending two Scouts and little old me to bring her home. I soon realised the reason for two Helios as the one that picked me up had the surveillance kit in the back and so only had enough room for one insignificant Corporal, whereas the other Scout had four lads hanging out with their boots on the skids. Even though they were hovered thirty feet over the square it didn’t take me long to spot the cam’d up faces, battledress and equipment of the troopers therein. These lads were SAS... The plot thickened.
‘All aboard!’ shouted the pilot over the row of the rotors. ‘Lid off please, Corporal, if you don’t mind.’
Yep... lid off - I didn’t argue as there was a good chance I was going to vomit, and before I was even strapped in properly we were off. Climbing too steeply for my stomach to keep up, the Scout was obviously being flown without my comfort in mind, I was already fucking freezing cold and the smell of aviation fuel was also working its magic on my general sense of wellbeing.
‘We’ll be over the area in about fifteen, Troop: hang in there and I’ll slow down a tad so you can talk us in. We won’t be flying directly over the area so all we need to know is where you were going in and out of the OP. We’ll drop you off there and you can brief the SAS guys on the ground as to the rest. They’ll watch your back as you approach.’
Watch my back against fucking what, I thought...
Also, what I didn’t realise at the time was that the pilot wasn’t intending to actually land... when he said he was going to ‘drop me off’ that’s exactly what he meant. 53 | P a g e
‘We’ve just got a call from your CO. The incident that your unit is attending... it’s the lad that was at the OP, he’s tied to a war memorial and wired up. There’s no sign of the driver, though, so if he’s not here we don’t know where else to look.’
‘It’s a she,’ I told him. ‘We’re looking for a woman.’
And now I knew why I needed my back watching.
The feeling of nausea was becoming a real issue when at last we slowed and the dipping and rising ceased. Thank fuck, I thought... I didn’t really fancy a lid full of chunder on my head for the rest of the day. When able, I yelled ‘Down there chief, just by that clearing in the wood to the north. If you circle right and come at it from the north-east we’ll avoid the actual OP, if that’s what you want.’
The chopper dropped like a stone to below tree level, making me feel sicker than ever, and circled in from the right as I had suggested. The other Scout followed close behind. I wondered how the lads on board stayed on board during all this nonsense, because I couldn’t see any straps helpfully facilitating a secure trip.
We came in low all the way. I can tell you that the last time I was that close to a tree I was pissing up it!! ‘Get in the doorway and I’ll tell you when to bail,’ said the pilot. I strapped on my helmet and got into the door space. I hoped he was going to get a fucking sight lower than we currently were, but he didn’t and I almost couldn’t believe it when the order came to ‘bail’. However, I was a rufftie, tufftie soldier of the Queen, so I closed my eyes, trusted in providence and bailed.
As I suspected, Cpl Burrell versus the Northern Irish countryside was a one- sided fight and I landed in a painful heap, my sidearm driving into my hip and the force of the landing popping some of the stitches in my leg. The SAS boys, 54 | P a g e laden down with full kit and weapons made the leap with ease. Well, they fucking would, wouldn’t they!!
They ran over to me and adopted a defensive covering position with a tidy 360 degree arc of fire. For the second time in twenty-four hours I was bleeding like a stuck pig and one of them snapped ‘Which way?’ and then: ‘You OK?’ I got the impression that he wasn’t all that bothered about me as I pointed to the fern-covered track.
‘I’ll live. That way goes up to a ridge overlooking the OP which is fifty yards clear of this wooded area on the side of the hill.’
‘Has the ridge got a clear view of the OP and surround?’
‘Yes, but not much of the road!’
‘You approach the OP from the wooded side. These lads will go with you.’
With that, two of them stood and motioned me to go first. The other two headed for the path. I set off, out of the landing zone and into the woods, glancing nervously about me as I did so. My leg was stinging like a bastard and the blood was congealing over the wound. Every so often, the friction from my long johns would rip the scab off, but I soldiered on and didn’t whinge in front of the tough SAS monkeys.
We reached the other side of the woods and started toward the position of the OP, which was now in direct line of sight. It was immediately apparent that Haywood was there, as she was in plain view, the paleness of her bare shoulders standing out amongst the greenery. One of the lads signalled to get down and scanned the area with field glasses. Having assessed the situation, he half-whispered ‘Subject in OP’ into a microphone attached to his collar and then signalled to move in. 55 | P a g e
The two SAS guys with me broke, one to the right and the other to the left, which left Muggins here the centre, which seemed to me to be the most exposed way in.
I glanced at the lad on my right and he must have spotted my sad puppy-like expression. ‘Keep low and go easy, we’ve got your back. You’ll be OK.’ It was said that these lads could not only spot a fly’s footprint on a NAAFI sandwich at one hundred yards, but they could also shoot the fly’s balls off before it died from eating the fucking sandwich. I was slightly, but not completely, reassured.
I muttered back: ‘She’s probably wired... if there’s some bastard about with a remote, they’ll wait until we get there. It could be a trap!’
‘Oh it’s a trap for sure,’ said the trooper on my right.
Well, thank fuck for that, I thought... drew my sidearm, chambered a round and carried on forward.
We were now within fifteen feet of Haywood and the OP. I slowed up and broke right to get a better look at the situation. I had no tools and only a thin battledress between me and potentially several hundred white hot shards of metal travelling at the speed of sound. It had been an interesting twenty-four hours without question and I was now wondering if I was going to see the next twenty-four.
The two lads with me had dropped into a single kneeling position, backs to me, with weapons shouldered. Suddenly, clumps of the earth around the OP began to leap up randomly with a thudding sound, and what appeared to be an angry wasp buzzed rapidly by my nose. I heard the report of an SLR and instinctively span left toward the sound which had come from the ridge, crouching and discharging my sidearm as I moved. 56 | P a g e
A tenth of a second later I heard other automatic fire, but it was plain that no more uninvited Ordnance was landing in my direction and, much to my great relief, just as quickly as it started, the firing ceased. I felt all ‘James Bond’ but the SAS were not impressed...
‘Put the pistol away, Corp, before you hurt somebody,’ said the lad on my left, as he gently placed a gloved hand on the breech, pushing the barrel down so it now aimed at the ground. ‘Best you stick to what you do best and we’ll swot the flies!’ ” 57 | P a g e
Chapter 12: Answering to God.
The two SAS operatives on the ridge had to wait until the enemy gave away their position. They had dropped most of their equipment and closed to the ridge in single file, silently, along the fern-covered pathway until they judged that they could safely go no further. Their camouflaged battledress and green and black face paint making them almost impossible to see, they certainly weren’t going to be heard. They selected covert firing positions in the bracken and waited.
From where they were they had seen the three soldiers on the side of the hill break cover from the woods and begin to make their way toward the OP. It was now that the leader received the message that Haywood had been spotted, too.
The two SAS men on the ground were putting their own lives on the line, as was the reluctant Burrell, hoping to draw enemy fire before any device was detonated. It was the only way.
Even the troopers on the ridge had become concerned as the three down on the hillside began to get closer to the OP. There was no sign of any movement on this ridge - maybe there was nobody else here, or they had the wrong position. They would soon find out either way.
Almost immediately in front of them, at the end of the fern-covered path, lay Rosie Coyle, hidden completely by her surroundings and dressed in her own camouflaged jacket and trousers, her long red hair tied back and tucked as far as possible into a black knitted beanie. From her position, which only just over an hour ago had been occupied by a British soldier, she could easily see when the three new arrivals broke cover and approached the OP. She aimed the SLR, taken from the kidnapped soldier, at each of them in turn. They had now spread out and she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop all three. The 58 | P a g e survivors of her first volley would undoubtedly and rapidly melt into the ample cover of the woods. From there they would easily be able to outflank her and cut off her retreat. What to do?
Rosie hadn’t expected to have to deal with this situation; her father had told her that she would be needed for an hour, possibly slightly more, and that he would return to keep an eye on the female soldier in the OP. His instructions had been: ‘If the bitch moves and should the device fail to detonate, shoot her. She has seen us all, Rosie. Don’t miss.’
Her father had distinctly stated that she would be away before anybody missed the two soldiers. She wasn’t away, and clearly the issue had become a reality that she had to deal with.
‘Why don’t we just put her out of her misery, Daddy?’ Rosie had enquired.
‘She’s our insurance if the other bastard fails for some reason to die for his country. Besides, she might just well attract some others by and by, when the two British soldiers are missed. It would be nice to get a hat trick, Rosie.’
That’s when he had said: ‘But don’t worry, you’ll be away long before that’s an issue!’
Then, within an hour of her being left alone, she had twice heard the sound of helicopters somewhere close. Although it wasn’t unusual to hear and see the Scouts, as they frequently patrolled these areas, it was very unnerving not to be able to ascertain where they were. She was therefore much relieved when the sounds of their rotors had faded into the afternoon greyness and she focussed once more on the OP beneath her.
After the inquest into her brother’s shooting, his involvement with the PIRA had been made public, and the local Loyalists had added to her family’s grief with threats and intimidation. They had struck at their house, struck at their 59 | P a g e car, daubed ‘Provo bastards’ and other terrible things about her brother on their yard fence. The decision to move to her uncle’s farm had been to protect her and Roisin, and it was here that her hatred had matured, here she learned about weapons and explosives, and it was from here she helped to plan the kidnap and execution of a British soldier.
Part of her duties in the PIRA required her to track the movements of Army and RUC using Roisin as a decoy, so when the British Army truck had broken down she had driven to the farm and notified her father, and now she was here.
Since her brother’s death at the hands of the British and the subsequent white-wash, Rosie was now a veteran of the struggle for a free Ireland; she and her father had joined her uncle and taken active roles. The reluctance to carry out the tasks assigned to her had not lasted long, and Rosie Coyle would not run from her duty. She pulled a well-worn picture of her brother from inside her jacket pocket and propped it upright in view. This steadied her resolve, and she knew what to do.
She would wait until all three closed in on the OP and then she would open up on the girl, wing her and attempt to panic her into moving. She knew that it wouldn’t take much to trigger the device, she also knew for certain that it would do what it was supposed to do. Her uncle was very good at this trade - his knowledge had come from years of having to improvise and make do. It was her uncle that had set the device in the OP, it was also her uncle that would see to the other soldier, now on his way to meet his fate at the memorial. She took aim at Haywood’s naked shoulder and waited for the right moment.
There would be no feeling of remorse in Rosie when these four British soldiers were sent to answer to their God for their country’s murdering policies. There was no fear and would be certainly no hesitation. 60 | P a g e
The soldier in the centre was now within four feet of the OP and the other two were in kneeling positions scanning the surrounding woods and road. Nobody was looking in the general direction of her position. The time had come.
Rosie took a deep breath, held it gently in and, after checking the safety setting on her weapon, squeezed the trigger and braced for the recoil.
Made under licence, the British version of the L1A1 Self-Loading Rifle effectively spat out twenty 7.62 mm rounds at 2700 feet per second, the recoil wasn’t too harsh for most and the weapon was accurate up to 650 yards, although the round could travel considerably further than that. Rosie considered herself a good shot and was momentarily astounded that she had missed her target.
Too late, she realised that the weapon had not been set to hit anything as close as the OP. Coulson had been guarding the road, which was almost three times the distance. Her failure to set the sights correctly meant she couldn’t have hit anything she aimed at in the area of the OP. Not on purpose, anyway.
Rosie panicked and fumbled with the sight. The two troopers on the ground were now aiming directly at the ridge and she felt very exposed. The girl soldier had not moved and Rosie knew she would have to finish her before she could flee the scene. Abandoning her reliance on the sights, she rose slightly for a better view and, as she aimed again, this time using her instinct, four rounds slammed into her head and upper body. Rosie Coyle was dead before the rifle fell from her shoulder.
Keeping their positions, the two SAS troopers on the ridge held their weapons steady, aimed at her lifeless body, now fully visible as the impact of the shots had rolled her out of her cover and onto her back. They didn’t move forward 61 | P a g e or break cover, the area was still hot until proven otherwise, and there may have been other shooters present.
One of them sent the message: ‘One down, area appears secure but keep your eyes on our position.’ Burrell didn’t hear the message as he returned his sidearm embarrassingly to its holster - he had no earpiece. 62 | P a g e
Chapter 13: It’s a Big Firm, Sally.
“After the joy of being a target for whoever it was on the ridge, and who was now probably and deservedly deceased, Private Benjamin woke up and shouted, ‘What’s happening... who’s there?’
She was in a bad way, half frozen and unable to move. ‘It’s Guy Burrell, Sally,’ I shouted back. ‘The fucking cavalry’s arrived. I’m going to get you out of there and back to base in time for tea.’
The two SAS lads had relaxed, and watched my fumbling about with looks of bored disdain. Perhaps they were lamenting not having a part in the despatch of the sniper.
Sally told me: ‘They found your sketch, Guy... I’m so sorry, they’ve taken Coulson. There was nothing I could do!’ Sally had begun to sob quietly, ‘Guy... I’m really cold.’
I told her that I knew, and sat on the ground in front of her and surveyed the scene carefully, picking out every tiny detail I could. There was little evidence of a command wire trigger but I had to get in close to make sure that radio- controlled detonation was not an issue. Although, to be honest, if either had been a possibility all four of us would already be spread untidily over County Antrim. There was also a chance of other devices rigged for approach.
Without tools or Bomb Disposal Suit, Cpl Guy Burrell was not going to take chances, even though he could see that Haywood was in the advance stages of hypothermia and shivering uncontrollably.
Burrell lay on his right side and edged into the ditch alongside Haywood until he could more or less see what the fuss was all about. 63 | P a g e
‘You appear to have an 84mm heat round sticking out of your knickers, Sally.’
‘Really?’ shivered Haywood, who hadn’t appreciated Burrell’s attempt at levity. ‘Stop clowning around, get me a jacket, and will you take this fucking hood off?’
‘Sorry Sally, no can do, not yet... what can you tell me about your little problem apart from the obvious?’
‘There were two down here and more on the ridge. They told me that they’d wired up a detonator to the 84, and just before they left, one of them reached behind me into the small of my back and pulled something out. I heard a clunk, like a ball-bearing hitting the bottom of a can.’
‘It’s a pressure trigger, then,’ said Burrell. ‘That’s why you’ve half the hillside lying in your lap - they’ve put that rock there to keep you from setting it off. Nice delicate touch, that.’
Burrell slowly slid his hand under Haywood, inching over the shell until he felt a cold metallic cylinder that wasn’t part of it. Changing direction slightly, he felt around it and located the hinged lever that was attached to the end. The device seemed to be gaffer-taped to the shell. ‘Piece of piss, Sally... have you out in sparrow’s fart time.’
Secretly, Burrell wasn’t so sure it would be that easy.
This was the spring-trigger mechanism. When released, it would generate a charge as it closed, which would then explode the detonator. Haywood’s back was keeping the lever open at 180 degrees to the cylinder.
He was disappointed to discover that the wires that must have been a part of the device were not on his side, or in view. This meant that he could not disarm the bomb by cutting them - it also meant that the detonator was 64 | P a g e probably out of reach as well. Haywood was lying hard up against the shallow wall of the OP, so there would be no way to go in on the right side. Burrell closed his eyes and tried to picture the layout under Haywood. There would be only one way to get everybody out of this in one piece.
He called to the two SAS guys to come over and take position: one at her head and one at her feet.
‘OK, Sally. Firstly I’m going to make you a lot more comfortable, that’s the easy bit. The next part of the plan you’re absolutely going to love.’
He rolled out from underneath her and gently removed the hood. Sally screwed her eyes tightly against the light and drew the cold sweet air deeply into her lungs. Burrell motioned to one of the troopers to pass him a knife and then began to cut through the bailing wire that held her arms and legs. He then cautiously pulled her combat jacket up over her shoulders and fastened it where he could.
‘The rock on your lap will have to remain for now,’ he said. Haywood felt a little better, but both of them knew that time was of the essence. Her lips had turned blue and she was finding it difficult to reason.
‘Right. Before I tell you what we are going to do I was wondering if I’m going to get to shag you once this is all over.’ Burrell gave her a cheeky sideways glance as he resumed his place on the ground.
‘You’d have to do more than take an anti-tank round out of my knickers for that to happen,’ replied Haywood.
‘Really? So I suppose a blow job is out of the question then,’ Burrell retorted.
Even though she was in considerable discomfort, she couldn’t supress a wide smile. Burrell noticed, reached up and placed the palm of his hand on her shoulder. 65 | P a g e
‘That’s it Sally, that’s the way. Now listen carefully. We need to transfer that dirty old bit of Irish countryside from your lap onto the trigger arm. And the way we’re going to do it is by carefully rotating you onto your right side and then we’ll swap your ass for the rock. Simple!
‘All you have to do is cling onto the rock with both hands until I tell you to let it down... the lads and I will do the actual rotating.’
Deteriorating rapidly, Haywood was feeling extremely weak with the cold, and she knew the rock would be heavier than she could probably have lifted from the ground. But if Guy said that this was the way to do it, then there must be no other option, she would do her part. She would do it to protect the lives of the men that were there to save her.
‘There will come a point, Sally, when you will be bent at the waist and that will be awkward, but it’s pretty plain sailing up to then.’
Burrell now addressed the two troopers: ‘I’m going to place my hand under as far as I can, I should be able to judge any movement of the pressure on the trigger and if I should yell for you to stop moving her, I guess you won’t need to be told twice.’ The troopers placed their weapons on the ground, still well within reach; they acknowledged the instruction and stood by.
Burrell reached under Haywood’s back and worked his way into position. His fingers painstakingly edged themselves into the tight gap until he could feel the end of the cylinder and the distinctive bell-shaped hinge to which the trigger was attached.
He closed his eyes and pictured the device and its composition. Variations of this setup had been used in a number of incidents over the years, constructed originally from parts of Russian landmines. The trigger was always finely balanced so as to stay open with minimum pressure, but as soon as it exceeded less than two degrees past the horizontal, the spring took a 66 | P a g e powerful hold and would snap shut like a mousetrap. It would only have to travel an inch to generate enough charge to fire the detonator.
He could not locate the wires, and surmised that they were probably connected through the side that was gaffer-taped to the heat round. Haywood’s back was soaking with sweat.
Burrell winced when he remembered that he’d failed to disarm something very similar in basic Felix training, not once but twice, even though he’d had the correct apparatus to lock the trigger down. He thought it best not to mention this.
‘Ok, here we go then, lads. Work together... easy does it.’
As the troopers turned her, the weight on Haywood’s lap began to shift to her right side, the trooper at her feet leant between her and Burrell, and took a firm hold on her belt so he could lever her lower half into the sideways position. The other steadied her head and gently lifted her shoulders. As they rotated her, Burrell felt her weight slide across his arm and the gap widen very slightly between her body and the trigger.
‘Whoa...hold there!’ snapped Burrell, and addressed the SAS lad by Haywood’s waist: ‘Be a gentleman and push her arse toward the bank slightly.’ The trooper did as instructed until Burrell told him to stop. This had the desired effect of making sure the downward pressure was maintained over the trigger as she got narrower.
Burrell was now able to wedge himself right in behind her, and his hand was directly between her body and the trigger. The pressure of her right arm and shoulder on the upper inside of his arm was cutting the blood supply off to his wrist and hand, and they began to tingle uncomfortably. ‘Carry on boys, let’s get this over with.’ Now Haywood was almost fully on her side and bent at the waist as Burrell had predicted, the weight of the rock was becoming 67 | P a g e intolerable, her icy cold fingers were failing her and she had never known such pain.
‘Guy... I can’t!’
Jammed in by the side of the ditch, the rock was gradually slipping onto the back of Burrell’s hand, but at least the trigger was being pressed in the safer direction.
‘Guy... please… I can’t hold it!’
The troopers looked to Guy for instructions. The guy at her waist had moved as if to support the weight of the rock.
‘No - leave it. I have the weight and it’s fine... it’s fine and it’s working, hold steady… we’re nearly ready to pull her out.’
Haywood had been turned as far as possible, her weight and the entire weight of the rock was bearing down on Burrell’s right arm, trapping him. As Burrell was tightly wedged up against her, there was no more space for Haywood to flatten into and so it would be from this angle that she would have to be lifted out - and lifted out very soon.
There was another problem. Her right arm was trapped under her body and also the leading edge of the rock. In this position, only she could free it. If she was lifted out under these circumstances, the rock would be dislodged and the trigger would deploy. She was also very close to losing consciousness.
‘Sally you have to get your arm out... Sally, stay with me.’
Haywood groaned and fought to stay conscious. Burrell couldn’t see her face, but felt her relaxing and guessed what was happening. 68 | P a g e
‘Hey Sally... Sally, guess what... you remember that package flown in from UK QM’s on Wednesday? Sally... do you fucking remember that package on Wednesday?’
‘Yeah, Guy. I remember. What are you dribbling on about, you idiot?’
‘Well that package was a response from our QM for deep waders, because our lads have to go into rivers up to their brass bollox in freezing water to check under bridges and shit. You know what they sent Sally? Guess what they sent.’
‘Guy, what is the relevance of...?’
‘Go on and guess... you can’t, right? They sent us ‘deep waders’ as requested... but they were bright fucking orange, Sally - bright day-glow see your fat arse from three miles away fucking orange... Not very tactical is orange, is it, Sally?
‘My point is... it’s a big firm and it screws thing up and there’s fuck-all we can do about it, mostly... but right now, Haywood, it’s down to you whether we all live or die here, because not one of us will leave until you’re out of this fucking shit-pit OP. So - what are you going to do, soldier?’
Haywood bit hard into her lip and braced. ‘You... are... a complete and utter... twat, Burrell.’ Then, with every ounce of resolve left in her, she found the strength she needed, screamed angrily and, by pushing upward, freed her arm just enough for the trooper at her head to firmly grab her hand.
Burrell momentarily felt quite indignant as a result of Haywood’s insult. ‘Did you just call me a complete and utter twat, Sally? Well, I suppose it could have been worse. Well done for freeing your arm in any case, now let’s have a look-see.’ 69 | P a g e
Burrell felt that the weight from the rock, and not Haywood, was now securely holding his hand and the trigger at the horizontal, ‘Right lads, get this fucking ungrateful cow off me.’
In seconds, two pairs of strong arms hauled her back into the world of the living, and Haywood was free. The two troopers then jointly carried her down the hillside and swiftly toward the road.
Being now assured that the area was secure, the two other SAS guys had called the Scouts back to facilitate their evacuation. They were now waiting half way down the hillside, and when the troopers arrived with Haywood they threw their jackets over her and began rapidly rubbing her shoulders and legs.
A ‘Hexi’ stove had been set up, out of the wind. In a blackened container, water was brought to the boil, to which tea bags, powdered milk and four sachets of sugar were added. With considerable assistance, Haywood was able to drink as much as she wanted, and tea had never tasted so good, nor been so welcome.
Tightly wrapped, and beginning to regain her senses, Haywood looked around her.
‘Where’s Guy?’
‘Just coming down now. One of the lads is seeing to a wound on his leg.’
‘Still bastard whinging,’ she thought, and momentarily rued the fact that she was now eternally indebted to him. She was also more than somewhat annoyed that she wanted to hug him until she burst. For Christ’s sake... would life ever be the same?
A Scout helicopter swept in low and cautiously put down on the road. It was different to the one that had brought Burrell, as that was back at AAC HQ 70 | P a g e being refuelled. This one had space in the back for a casualty and carried a Medical Officer. Haywood was just able to make it to the helicopter and was helped up onto the stretcher and loaded into the back. Just before the side door closed, the MO stripped the SAS combat jackets from her and tossed them out. After wrapping her in brown woollen blankets, he deftly put a saline drip into her arm.
She didn’t dare ask the MO if he knew anything about the whereabouts of Coulson: she simply wasn’t ready to hear the answer if the news was going to be bad, and she felt for certain that it could only be bad.
Haywood couldn’t see out of the helicopter as it took off, gained height and began a wide sweep to avoid other incoming air traffic, first north and then south-west, it turned toward Belfast and the Royal Victoria Hospital. If she had been able, she might have spotted the white Ford Transit through the winter trees below, as it made its way back toward the OP.
“Well that’s fucking charming that is, I thought, as they all buggered off down the hill. I was still trapped under the rock with a heat round to keep me company. My leg was sorer than a sunburnt dick and I couldn’t feel my hand. Where the fuck had the PROVOs got an 84mm anti-tank heat round from anyway? Some careless knacker probably got more extras than a Bangkok millionaire for that day’s negligence.
I had no idea if they were even going to come back for me, thought they probably would, but if I had to wait until they’d finished flirting with Private Benjamin I’d be here all night.
I couldn’t move my right hand but my bandaged left was free and I now had a clear view of the trigger cylinder. There, just as I had thought they would be, were the two wires that led to the detonator that had been crudely wedged 71 | P a g e into an open priming panel on the shell. I reached for the SAS lad’s knife, still where I had left it, and cut the wires, simple as that... job done...
I pocketed the knife and thought ‘He’s not having that fucker back.’ It was quite smart and much better than the standard issue, I can show it to you if you’re interested!!
Anyway, as I heard the choppers coming back, a smiling black and green camouflaged head appeared above me. It said, cheerily: ‘You OK, mate? Can I take that heavy old rock off of your hand?’
No point in recounting what my answer was.
The Scouts were landing one at a time on the narrow road, the SAS guys loaded Haywood onto the first one and off she jolly well went to hospital, probably in Belfast. I hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to her as she was surrounded by helping hands. I was glad I hadn’t mentioned what had happened to Coulson back on the hillside, and wondered when she would be back at base.
To be honest, I had developed a bit of respect for Private Benjamin, she’d taken all that had been thrown at her, wobbled slightly but had not broken. What a little toughie... actually I wanted to fuck her brains out even more than ever now and allowed myself a fleeting vision of what form her gratitude for saving her life might take. Was I ashamed of that? Nah... Not really.
I noticed the area around me was becoming busy with Land Rovers, and at least another Scout had appeared. The RUC had arrived to clear up and the SAS was leaving.
Down by the road, some genius had brewed up. One of the lads had a first aid kit, was dousing my leg with iodine again... jeez... and was attempting to dress the wound as the second chopper came in. The downwash of the rotors 72 | P a g e was making a tidy job impossible and finally, for expediency I suppose, he just rammed the loose bandage end into my combats and I, after removing my helmet, climbed into the Scout.
Then the pilot says, ‘Where to, Corp? Your unit is up in the north of the County, will that do you?’
Amazingly I told him yes, can’t remember why I did that now... because what I do recall is wanting another cuppa, a piss and a couple of pound of aspirin. I should have been headed for Base but instead, I am now up in the freezing cold rear of a helicopter again, trying to keep my lunch down.
As we banked and headed north, we flew over the ridge and I was surprised to see the body of a young woman lying where I’d last seen Coulson. She was obviously dead, face upward and she appeared to be staring right at me. The downwash blew the beanie hat away that she had must have been wearing. Now totally free, her bright red hair unravelled and danced and snaked around her face.
I thought... ‘Now that’s not the best colour hair for covertly shooting at people is it, sweetheart?!’ and I naively wondered if that was what had given her position away.
Just like those bastard orange deep waders would have done.” 73 | P a g e
Chapter 14: The Second Kill of the Day.
William Coyle was uncomfortable on the cold steel floor of the Transit. He felt every bump of the road which projected up the length of his spine and into his neck. Each impact would produce an unintentional grunt that would escape from his chest. He watched the two dogs attempt time and time again to stay standing, occasionally one would let out a bored whimper and jump up to place its front legs on the backs of the passenger seats, totally ignoring Coyle in its effort to see out, and trampling on him with sharp toenails that scratched his legs. Coyle didn’t admonish the animals as they had been confined now for over two hours - he just patted them when he could reach without overbalancing.
Although the two men in the front were seasoned veterans and had run with many a notorious member of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, he didn’t like either of them and much preferred the company of the hounds and the discomfort of the floor of the van. He felt that these two particular sons of Ireland were not soldiers in the true sense; they were young, early twenties, and had never experienced the anguish of the real injustices of the struggles because they did what they did for profit and for a misguided need for adventure. There were many like these two, and at this time they served a purpose, but Coyle knew that when the British were finally driven from his land, a new struggle would have to occur to rid the Republican Army and the new free government of these psychopaths.
Coyle knew and accepted that he would answer for his crimes and the evil he was forced to commit, probably in this world and definitely in the next, but he had a deep sense of duty that came from the need to save every other true Irish family from the pain of the loss his family had suffered. Even if his actions, in their turn, meant causing pain and all of that suffering to the families of English soldiers. 74 | P a g e
He had watched his eldest daughter descending into the same dark place and inevitably adopt and expand his ideals. She was now as tainted as he was, and sometimes he held her redundant flute to his chest, remembered how life had once been for them all, and wept.
If the soldier called Haywood was not already dead from the cold, he would execute her because he would have to, it was as simple as that, and the issue would not be complicated by the fact that Haywood was a woman. This, combined with the death of the other soldier in the town, would send a message to the British government. The fight was to go on in spite of Thatcher’s cowardly attempts at a political solution and her negotiations with the traitor Garret FitzGerald. It was to be the so-called Irish-Anglo agreement, and for the good of a free Ireland these negotiations must fail.
It was getting overcast and cold. They must be getting close to the ridge where Rosie was on guard. He adjusted the folded overalls he was using as a cushion and made to light his pipe but, just as he struck the match, he was thrown across the floor of the van and landed, cursing and confused, on one of the dogs on the opposite side.
‘What in the name of the Holy Father are you fecking about at? I’m away all over the back here yee Eejit.’
‘We have some company, old man. I count three of them!’
The dog snapped at him and then instinctively cowered with a guilty expression on its face as William Coyle reached up for the wooden partition and painfully pulled himself upright. The driver had swerved for cover off the road and jammed the van into the bank beside it, so he couldn’t exit through the side door. Cursing again, he kicked open the rear doors and only just managed to grab the collar of an exuberant Irish wolfhound as it made a bid for freedom. ‘Stay yee there... fuck yee!’ he snapped, and half-threw the 75 | P a g e animal back into the recess. He alighted, reached back in and collected a shotgun.
‘Where are they, and what are they?’
‘Scouts... There’s two circling at your eleven o’clock and one away off.’
‘Jesus - are they anywhere near the ridge? How far is it?’
‘Not but a mile and the Scouts are right over it, old man. I’m thinking we’re discovered.’
Coyle broke the shotgun and checked the contents of the barrels, ‘You can think what the feck you will. Now move away over or get out. I’m taking this van in.’
As the driver climbed from the van, the passenger followed through the same door by swinging his legs across the driver’s seat. Coyle had to wait until both had cleared the door.
‘Are yee away somewhere, boys?’ he snarled as he took his driving position.
‘Aye, I suppose that we are!’ replied the passenger. ‘The place will be crawling with RUC - you can’t be of any help to her now, Willy. Let’s go before they’re on us.’
‘Away if you will, yee gobshites, that’s my wee girl up there, so it is.’
Coyle slammed the door, heaved the wheel hard right and punished the Transit away from the banking, nearly striking an ex-passenger as he did so. The dogs were thrown from the open rear doors, along with various tools, as the van accelerated. The two PROVOs turned and headed in the opposite direction, accompanied by the bewildered wolfhounds. As the van departed and became a cloud of black diesel smoke, the former driver shouted after it: ‘And fuck you as well then, Coyle!’ 76 | P a g e
Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and William Coyle was hugely regretting his decision to postpone the execution of the girl soldier. To his dismay, and against his orders, Rosie had dropped her little sister off at the farm and followed them all to the OP. As sharp as a razor, and due to extensive training and subsequent practice, she had taken a mental snapshot of the sketch they’d found on the girl and arrived just as they were preparing to depart for the memorial. She had then demanded to be taken also, and her father had had had no choice but to post her on the ridge, as many things could go wrong during the mission, exposing them all to the lethal consequences of their trade.
He’d lied to his daughter about hoping to attract others into a trap there, as that was the last thing he wanted or expected. He knew that the plan he intended to set in motion would tie up much of the British forces in this area and it should have been hours before the two soldiers that had been here were missed. Her post was to be just a diversionary task, as Haywood would definitely freeze to death before being found and, even given the hassle of rigging the device at the memorial, there would be plenty of time to get back to Rosie and clear out.
Now the best he could hope for was that Rosie had had the good sense to shoot Cpl Haywood and vacate. He was sure that she would be able to do the former, but feared that her stubbornness would prevent her from doing the latter.
Coyle began to panic and drove the Transit far too quickly through the maze of narrow country lanes. He was also unsure of the route and had locked all four wheels a number of times as he’d sped past junctions he’d be required to use. Most of these were turnings, left and right, which were hidden on bends and in hollows, with ragged and weathered signposts. 77 | P a g e
It was easy to lose one’s sense of direction in these lanes, and Coyle had continually wound down the driver’s side window to stick his head out into the winter air. Its bite was multiplied by the wash of the speeding Transit as he attempted, through watering eyes, to spot the helicopters and then to head in their direction.
Knowing for sure that Rosie would not run, he had abandoned all concerns about being spotted. All that mattered was that he get to his daughter before she was taken, or the unthinkable other possibility occurred.
It was inevitable that sooner rather than later his erratic driving would be witnessed and ultimately be the subject of a radio message from one of the Scouts to the units on the ground at the OP. It was also inevitable that reports of the use of a white Transit by the memorial bombers had begun to filter through, and in a matter of minutes the transit’s progress was being tracked from above and an ambush prepared.
As the Transit closed, finally, to where Rosie had hidden her Vauxhall, Coyle pushed the Transit for all it was worth and fish-tailed around the penultimate sharp bend, oblivious as to what would be hidden by it. With only just enough time to reactively jam his right foot on the brake pedal, he was confronted by a large green Saracen Armoured Personnel Carrier parked across the lane.
Although they were aware of the Transit’s approach, the RUC at the roadblock had parked their APC too close to the bend and had little time to react. As the Transit cleared the apex of the bend, two of the guards found themselves on the wrong side of the APC and only had time to discharge two rounds each into it before having to dive into the treeline.
Continuing to slide, the Transit struck the stone wall hard on the driver’s side rear panels, which made it bounce back to straight and then off to the right, so that the nearside of the van was presented to the guards at the roadblock. 78 | P a g e
Consequently, all their fire – from the two at the front of the APC and the machine gunner on the turret - struck the transit on the nearside and missed Coyle.
The Transit careered onward and slid violently, now almost square on, into the APC. The impact forced the back wheels to leave the road as the vehicle momentarily attempted to stand on its nose. Coyle was catapulted forward and struck his temple on the post between the windscreen and the door quarter light. He felt his ribs crack as the inertia drove his body into the steering wheel.
The impact on the APC had pushed the Transit tight into the stone and earth banking, so it now effectively blocked the lane so completely that others of the RUC struggled to get around it to engage the driver. Further to that, the RUC gunner in the turret had been thrown against his Bren gun and, restricted by the mounting, couldn’t lower the aim enough to hit the cab.
As the two guards to his left picked themselves up and began to recover their firing positions, a fourth guard was squeezing around the cold metal-bodied rear of the Saracen. Stunned and bleeding, Coyle fumbled for his shotgun and kicked open the driver’s door. Spotting the fourth guard, he brought his gun up to his shoulder and discharged both barrels, just missing the edge of the door, directly into the chest of the guard.
Just for a second, Coyle felt that he had gained the upper hand. Adrenalin masked the pain in his temple and right side and gave him the strength of a man fighting for his very life.
‘Come yee on then, yee orange bastards... see what I’ll do for you. You’re not against a helpless unarmed wee lad this time!’
Coyle shook the blood from his eyes and staggered from the Transit. He broke the shotgun and began to reload. Being blocked by the body of the van, the 79 | P a g e two RUC had no clear shot and so were cautiously making their way to the rear of the Transit to engage the furious Coyle from his right side.
The RUC man in the turret had recovered, and sprayed the Transit with automatic fire to where he thought Coyle to be standing. Twenty-one 7.62 rounds laced through the thin metal indiscriminately and peppered the stone wall opposite. One of them struck Coyle high in his left shoulder, smashing his scapula and collar bone. The impact of the shot spun him round, face first, into the Transit’s side.
As he pushed himself back round, his left arm now hanging uselessly, he was aware of a large shadow cast over him and the thump, thump, thump of rotors. He was not surprised, therefore, to see the menacing shape of a helicopter hovering fifteen feet above him. One-handed, William Coyle raised his shotgun and cried out ‘Rosie!!!’ as the two passengers, hanging half out of the aircraft, coldly and efficiently made their second kill of the day. 80 | P a g e
Chapter 15: The Pig Stick and the Wheelbarrow.
Impassively, Coulson watched the approaching wheelbarrow. This was the nickname given to the remotely operated vehicle that bomb disposal technicians sent in to set off or examine such devices as the one attached to Coulson’s body.
It was possible to attach a number of peripheral aids to the ROV, such as the ‘Pig Stick’, which was a high pressure water cannon that disrupted electrical systems, or simply a shotgun which could smash the windows of cars to make access easier. This particular wheelbarrow could not climb the stone steps to reach the memorial that held Coulson, so the only attachments that made sense were a video camera and a microphone.
The wheelbarrow halted in front of the memorial and sat there, as if mocking the unfortunate soldier. Coulson shouted down: ‘Who’s there? Who’s on the end?’
‘It’s Pete Hartley, Dave! How you bearing up, mate. You getting a nice tan?’
‘I could murder a brew, Pete. Can you send back that heap of crap with a kettle?’
This type of comment was typical of the temperament of the Felix operatives. In a trade such as theirs, the risk of being blown to pieces - or at least maimed - was a real concern and the soldiers who took the risks developed and utilised what some may describe as ‘inappropriate’ humour.
‘We’ve got one back here at the pig. I’ll save you a biscuit, too - if you’re a good soldier and tell me all you can about your new overcoat.’
‘I am wearing the latest in House of Semtex, mate, about three pounds. There’s a mercury balance switch which is easy to get at, but the bad news is 81 | P a g e that I reckon there’s a remote as well, so you might think about getting some bods up in the surrounding buildings to have a look around.’
Coulson knew fairly well that scouting out anybody with a remote trigger was a long shot, and that the ‘Felix’ team probably wouldn’t waste time in trying to do so. What they would do now, having absorbed Coulson’s information, would be to attempt to jam the incoming signal.
Sergeant Pete Hartley 321 Coy RAOC EOD stepped back slowly from the ROV operator and lit a cigarette. He looked at his watch. It was 15:35, and he calculated that there would only be another forty minutes or so of daylight. He took two long pulls on the cigarette and threw it to the ground as another specialist approached with his EOD protection suit.
As he took off his combat jacket and held out his arms for the suit’s thick overcoat to be strapped to him, he shouted: ‘Who’s on the jamming?’
‘It’s sorted, Sergeant, the sparks is on it!’
‘Get him to tell me when you reckon it’s safe.’
Sergeant Hartley was the most experienced on the unit and this was his third full time tour of Northern Ireland. He’d been part of the team that had combed the ruins of the Grand Hotel Brighton in 1984 and had helped to piece together what had happened, leading to the conviction of Patrick Magee, whose fingerprint was found on a registration card in the rubble. The Sergeant had personally defused thirty-eight devices, but this was the first time he’d tackled a bomb strapped to a hostage, and this was bothering him.
The other thing that was preying on his mind was that jamming the remotes had definitely worked in the past, but the PIRA were getting cleverer and there had been a report that a ‘Felix’ had been badly injured in an incident on the border, when jamming had appeared to have failed. The advice from 82 | P a g e
Thiepval Barracks in Lisburn was that the bombers were probably using pulsed signals, which were difficult to jam, and that specialists were to use the wheelbarrows exclusively until countermeasures were devised and proven.
Obviously, on this occasion there was no choice but to suit up and go in and pray that the makers of this device were behind the times. The light was now fading significantly.
The overcoat was now in place; the heavy metal plating sewn into the lining made the coat weigh close to eighty pounds. The foot-high collar chaffed continually on the wearer’s neck, and the additional waistcoat and tool holder swung across the body at inopportune moments. Along with the helmet and visor, the suit was designed to stop fragments and shrapnel. It was not, however, effective against the blast of an explosion at close range, and three pounds of Semtex would mean close range would be twenty-five yards. 83 | P a g e
Chapter 16: A Quare Geg.
“The AAC Scout dropped me off in a football field on the outskirts of the town. This time the bugger landed, as I had busted enough stitches for one day. I cleared the landing zone and smiled awkwardly at the group of Irish kids whose game we had just so rudely interrupted. One of the little wankers gave me the one finger salute and that started a cacophony of whistles and harsh sounding ‘Norn iron’ insults.
When I first got posted to the six counties I had ‘acquired’ a copy of ‘A Quare Geg’ by John Pepper. This was a list of sayings, expressions and everyday colloquialisms that could be heard when in the merry streets of Belfast, or ‘Belfat’ as stated in the book. The title meant ‘A good Laugh’ and was actually a good laugh.
After reading sections like ‘if that cat hadda bin a dog, it wud be a dead duck,’ and ‘I'll hit ye a kick in the swingers,’ I remember thinking, ‘no wonder we’re needed over here - they’re from another fucking planet!’
Since then, in the course of my duty, and sometimes in a local house of wines and gins, I had been subjected to many a ripe and thoroughly descriptive noun, but the real juicy bastards - the ones that cut me to the quick - were the ones that came from the children. They can spot a weakness or strange personality trait in a victim from a block away and then you’re theirs and there would be no defence. Fortunately, the engineer on the helicopter had radioed ahead and the lovely Private Debra Edwards (who had a face like a cat licking chillies off of a nettle) was speeding toward me in her Green WRAC Taxi.
No doubt she had saved my life, and I almost kissed her... almost. 84 | P a g e
‘Hello Cpl Burrell, are you going to bleed in my Land Rover? ‘cause if you are you can mop it out not me... did you find Sally, and are you up to speed on the situation in the town?’
‘And nice to see you too, Edwards. I know it’s Coulson and that’s all I know,’ I replied. ‘Sally and I are now an item, as I saved her pert little arse from being blown to bits by an anti-tank round, and as soon as she gets warmed up and out of the Royal Vic, we are going to Hawaii to have rampant sex under the palm trees... we thought we’d name our first child after you.’
By the time we arrived in the square, Edwards had furnished all the relevant details and in gratitude I left a nice patch of sticky red blood on her passenger seat. She must have spotted it, but didn’t say anything.
Sgt Hartley was totally suited and booted and preparing for the ‘long lonely walk’. As he assembled and pocketed all the tools he might need, I told him sparingly about my last three hours. He congratulated me and told me to ‘have it all in writing’ by lunch the next day. Then, as there was fuck all else I could do, I trotted over to the ROV operator and took the microphone from him to have a chat with Coulson.
‘Hey Dave, it’s Guy Burrell. How’s it hanging?’
‘Hey Guy. Hanging is about right. You got any news about Sally?’
‘Sally’s fine, mate. Sgt Hartley is on his merry way and the 2IC says we got to get back to the OP before nightfall or he’ll have our arses for glasses’.
‘Actually wouldn’t be surprised, Guy,’ said Coulson. He paused. ‘Are they jamming?’
His voice was thinner, and I got the feeling that he was asking for reasons other than mere curiosity. I nodded, and then felt very silly as there was no way he could have seen that. 85 | P a g e
Then he said: ‘It’s a strange game this, Guy... not sure I like it any more.’ He continued slowly: ‘Do you remember that time we were on the way up to Catterick from Wimbish and we dropped in on my family?’
I remembered all right. His Dad had some hard-core home brew in his shed at the end of the small neat garden of Coulson’s childhood home. I had partaken unreservedly of this welcome gift and thus, being inexperienced in such potions, had rapidly become unsteady and somewhat loud. Ex-RSM Coulson and son necked the beer like sweet spring water and had not been affected quite as much as I, and I recall their looks of disgust very clearly.
I also recall laying some thick Burrell chat onto the lily-white ears of Coulson’s fifteen-year-old sister when she rocked up home from the youth club, and later throwing up in the neighbour’s front garden. The memory made me wince. I clicked the open channel button on the microphone.
‘Yeah... I have said sorry once or twice for that, Dave. I didn’t realise she was only fifteen and I accept that the thick ear I got from your old man was entirely justified!’ Another pause...
‘They won’t find the trigger man, Guy, and there’s a chance the jamming won’t work... you do remember where I live don’t you?’
There was something else now underlying Coulson’s tone - it was almost with a kind of acceptance that he said: ‘It would be polite of you to stay sober when you go again.’
I wasn’t having any of that shite. He was suggesting that I would have to go do the black tie visit in my number ones. I pushed the send button on the handset and told him: ‘Don’t be a silly soldier, Dave... I can’t go on me tod. Your old man will kick my head in and your little sister is likely to call the Old Bill.’ 86 | P a g e
Sgt Hartley had started his walk. A loud cheer came from the crowd at the junction and I wondered if this was genuine accolade or a realisation that they would now possibly see something exciting.
Dave never did reply and, as Sgt Hartley drew closer, I frantically scanned the windows and roofs of the surrounding buildings of the town square.”
From where he was, Rosie Coyle’s uncle could clearly see the soldier tied to the memorial in the small town square. He appeared to be talking to the ROV. Below and far behind him out of sight, the Felix Unit crouched and watched the robotic figure of the specialist edging his way toward the memorial. Through his open window, the chill wind carried the sounds of the radios: electric voices and static. He could hear, but not understand, what they said, and he wasn’t going to stick his head out to listen.
The sun was going down behind the roofs of the buildings in the square, and the shadows were encroaching on his view. Soon, his judgement of distance would be impaired, and he knew that the time was nearly upon him. This explosion - this gesture - would be quite an event. He would trigger it from the room behind, to cover him from the blast, and then would have ample opportunity to escape through the utility room at the rear of the house. From there, he would make for the safe republican farmhouse to the east, where he would hide up until all the inevitable patrols and house searches abated.
Was the specialist really taking his time or had time itself slowed to compete with the fading sunlight? Rosie’s uncle felt his heart almost exploding in his chest. If the British were jamming his signal he would have to set the charges off with a shot from the SLR. This would be a difficult shot at the best of times and he would be exposed to the blast face-on. 87 | P a g e
He decided he could wait no longer. The walking figure was not going to get close enough to die with his comrade in retribution for his country’s crimes. He rose and moved swiftly to the back room, then lay tight against the party wall. In his hand, he had a radio control for a model aeroplane. From his inside pocket he took two nine volt batteries and pushed them into the sender, switched it on, took a deep breath, and thumbed the controls hard up to send the signal to explode the device. Nothing happened.
Coulson watched Sgt Hartley’s approach and judged him to be sixty yards out, still safe. The Corporal knew he was being watched; he couldn’t know from where but his earlier sighting of the tobacco tin with the thin makeshift wire aerial could not mean anything else. He felt sure that the jamming signal would not work and, besides, he couldn’t afford to take the chance, for that would certainly mean the death of his Sergeant.
26-year-old L.Cpl. Dave Coulson 321 Coy RAOC EOD looked for the last time at the sun as it disappeared, closed his eyes and leant his upper body hard over. The mercury in the cylinder drained into its end but the device remained dormant.
Two chances, he thought - 50/50 and he’d leant the wrong way. Coulson chuckled out loud: ‘Fucking typical,’ he said, straightened and leant the opposite way…
Rosie Coyle’s uncle returned, cursing, to the front room of the house in which he was hiding, raised the SLR and took aim through the sights, squinting in a desperate attempt to see the point that he’d have to hit to detonate the bomb. Just as he tightened his finger and breathed in, the soldier became light and flame... light as bright as the sun. Coyle was far too close and the blast, travelling faster than sound, threw him like a pebble against the bedroom wall and crushed his chest, heart and lungs. 88 | P a g e
Down on the ground, Sgt Hartley was also thrown backward, the weight of the suit and his distance from the memorial lessening the impact significantly. He was knocked out cold, as the square in front of him disintegrated and the glass and debris flew in all directions, scything and smashing everything they hit. The startled crowd at the junction fell back screaming in disarray, as the shock wave carried the heat and supercharged particles just over their heads. As silence finally fell over the small town square, the women, the children and the men that had been present gathered themselves and made for their homes, the scene having been irrevocably imprinted on their memories for ever. 89 | P a g e
Chapter 17: SUA TELA TONANTI.
“I didn’t go to Dave’s parent’s house. I could say that I meant to but I didn’t get around to it. I could but I’d be lying. To be honest, I didn’t want to go and so I didn’t go.
Don’t look at me like that... what would I have said? What the fuck was the point? Besides, I fucking hate Newcastle... grey, miserable place, and they’re harder to understand than the bastard Irish.
Anyway, we were posted back to battalion two months later, and poor old Dave Coulson was soon forgotten about, that is to say that the subject didn’t crop up so often in the mess. We had a short memorial service and the chaplain read out this poem by Flavia Weedn...
‘Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some people move our souls to dance. They awaken us to a new understanding with the passing whisper of their wisdom, and make the sky more beautiful to gaze upon. Some people stay in our lives awhile, leave footprints on our hearts and we are never, ever the same.‘
I remember the poem clearly, because that’s when I had said goodbye to my mate, 26-year-old L.Cpl. Dave Coulson 321 Coy RAOC EOD.
Later, his name appeared on the list of the fallen in shiny gold lettering beneath the motto SUA TELA TONANTI, ‘To the Warrior his Arms’. Then we just soldiered on, because that’s the way we handled this crap. 90 | P a g e
As for Haywood and me, we had a disastrous outing in Cambridge just after leaving Ireland. I don’t really need to elaborate but sufficient to say we disagreed on the old ‘sex on the first date’ issue. Although I reckoned she owed me, I didn’t push it, and soon after I heard she was being poked by some ‘Tin Belly’ subaltern.
What I did do, though, was look up those little shit PTI’s and sign up for one of their Martial Arts Classes held twice a week in one of the huge hangers that was our camp gymnasium.
And that’s another story right there... 91 | P a g e
PART TWO: ‘YOU’RE A BETTER MAN THAN I AM, GUNGA DIN!’
Chapter 18: Early Days and the Mighty Mr Duff.
“Why am I this old and still not married? Well, it didn’t help being a soldier for as long as I have been. I joined up - actually was forced to join up - in the spring intake of February 1980 and, against my expectations, liked it so much I stayed. There actually was a semi-serious fling or three during my service, and I did make the dumb-arse mistake of importing a Paddy when my last long-term tour of Ireland ended. That all went to shit, of course, and cost me a packet.
I guess you are an inescapable product of your parents. Mine split when I was twelve, as Dad Burrell wasn’t husband material either; he was prone to extra- marital affairs and would thrash my poor old Mum if she dared to complain. He’d often thrash me and my older sister as well just because he could, that was until one of my sister’s fellas fucked him up in the car park of the Crown, and after that he only thrashed me. Mum had stopped complaining.
‘Is your Dad still around?’
Nope, he isn’t. Funny though, when he eventually did leave I was surprisingly quite upset.
When I was a teenager I had my fair share of the fairer sex and normally I didn’t think that meeting the parents was a good plan and, because I was seldom with any one girlfriend for more than a week or so, this had not yet proved to be an issue. Then, in the space of a couple of months, it had become two issues. The first time was when I was discovered by the father of one particular village girl whilst covertly keeping her company in a house where she was babysitting. 92 | P a g e
This father had suspected that his daughter was capable of rebellion when denied access to certain desires; currently I was one of those desires. His suspicions were dead right about her rebellious capabilities but he was totally unaware, until then, of what she was also capable of and rather good at, which – ironically - had led most of the local lads to encourage her in the initial rebellion. Naturally, I was taking full advantage of their hard work.
So that’s how I met the mighty Mick Duff, trucker and proud father, who had a beard like a sheepdog’s arse and hands so big that they could span and pick up dinner plates. He had crept up to the old bay window and peered through a gap in the drapes, and witnessed yours truly indulging in activities of which he was never going to approve. The next thing Ms Duff and I knew was there was a seemingly very angry trucker hammering on the front door and yelling, ‘I know he’s in there’ through the letterbox.
Wherever it was that I was in, it certainly wasn’t the letterbox!
I could have fled through the back door and across the muddy onion field, from which I had emerged some half hour earlier, but most young men of seventeen seldom show wisdom of judgement and so I elected to conceal myself in the space behind the large country-style settee, which stank of Labrador and cigars.
In truth, it wasn’t bravado that kept me there. I had begun a pleasurable undertaking that I really wanted to complete and naively thought that the nubile Ms Duff would convince her Dad that she was now, and had always been, alone in the execution of her babysitting duties.
This episode was always going to end with a bruise or two and within seconds of being let through the front door, Mr Duff’s massive hand first dragged me unceremoniously from behind the settee and then, having changed to a fist, sent me sprawling on the hall flagstones. I actually didn’t blame him for that, 93 | P a g e we had been caught and would both now answer for our carnal crimes. No, I didn’t blame him for that one...
‘Now fuck off before I skin you alive,’ growled the purple-faced defender of offspring chastity. His sheepdog’s-arse beard made his upper lip look massive, and foamy remnants therein suggested he had hurried to this place, crusader- like, from the village pub, no doubt after some old busy body had reported hearing my stupidly loud Ducati motorbike as I had approached the village earlier, the bike and rider being well known in the area for all the wrong reasons.
Problem was, I had not been able to re-acquire my crash helmet whilst flying toward the hallway. Cowering there in the shadow of certain death, I felt like Oliver Twist must have felt when he asked for more.
‘Please, Sir…’ pointing with shaking hand and trying desperately not to catch his laser-like gaze... ‘My helmet’?
Any pressure that Mr Duff had managed to release in the initial assault was now replenishing itself, just like when you cork a boiling kettle. It wasn’t hard to spot what was going through his mind as I squeezed toward my crash helmet, past a stomach which must have cost a fortune in beer and bacon butties to construct. He didn’t attempt to move out of the way, just swivelled slightly so as to cause as much of a barrier as was dignified, and then I had to make my way back toward the door and escape.
My return journey proved to be too much for the man and I promptly found myself once more on the flagstones of the hallway. That one I did blame him for, the hairy old bastard.
But here’s the irony. In order to curtail his wayward daughter’s exploits, Mr Mick Duff encouraged the attentions of one Geoffrey D’Arcy, a smart lad who was the son of the Regimental Sergeant Major from the barracks just down 94 | P a g e the road. He had a nice new shiny Yamaha RD350, proper bike leathers and short ginger hair. He said please and thank you, and no doubt kept his mouth closed when eating. Anyway, Duff must have been over the moon when he arrived at his door all suited and booted to woo his daughter and even provided funds for a Chinese takeaway and half a bitter shandy apiece.
The offshoot of all this misplaced enthusiasm was that, two months later, news of Ms Duff’s pregnancy was the topic of the village and I felt that justice had been served and the balance of the universe restored. Subsequently, the girl was wed before her belly became too big for her to wear her Mother’s old wedding dress, which had been rescued from the attic and hastily dry- cleaned.
I was not invited to the wedding or the reception, can’t think why. 95 | P a g e
Chapter 19: More Tea, Vicar?
‘You mentioned that there were two issues.’
Indeed. My second parental experience happened about five weeks after the aforementioned, when I found myself eyeing up the ample breasts of a waitress at the local Little Chef café. This was a regular destination for the young bikers of the area and the staff would play glam rock and Quo over the small PA. Oddly, it was a fairly good place to meet girls, and many an eager son of the motor cycle had scored at this place.
Of course, this was during the summer months, when the weather was kind to exposed forms of transport. Typically, the girls weren’t quite so keen to hook up when it was cold and wet; during the winter and autumn months they preferred the company of car drivers and we didn’t get a look in.
To be fair, other than the girls suffering the discomfort of sitting on a motorbike in the snow, another factor may have been to do with our appearance in these dark times. We were all bloody poor and couldn’t afford proper wet weather gear, so we utilised plastic shopping bags held over boots and gloves with elastic bands... this was not a great look.
Worse still, one of the lads had a brother who worked on the railways and had provided him and a few of our gang with heavy-duty plastic bright yellow overcoats and leggings that were far too big for any of us. So consequently we always looked bedraggled, were always wet and cold, and it took a good fifteen minutes to shed or put on all the necessary paraphernalia.
The car drivers with their Escorts, Minis and Cortinas, simply opened a door and beckoned. 96 | P a g e
But this was summer, and on this particular day the owner of the ample breasts was one Rebecca Devonshire, a vicar’s daughter as it turned out, from one of the village parish churches, and a proper grammar school stunner.
From first sight I was much enamoured and lavished the girl with frequent gifts of chocolate and menthol cigarettes until she caught me. Then, a week or so later, after a particularly satisfying episode behind the cricket score board on the edge of the village green, whilst grinning like a dog with two dicks and burdened with post-coital vulnerability, I unwisely agreed to meet her parents.
‘Were you curious about her motives reference the meeting?’
I don’t know to this day why she felt this to be the way forward, but the point is that she did, and so the next Sunday afternoon, having promised and fearing that further liaisons behind the cricket score board would be hard to come by, I coasted my old BSA A10 into the gravelled drive of the Vicarage, parked it and swopped my battered old leather jacket for the blue suede one retrieved from the canvas luggage bag strapped to the petrol tank.
The bike had straight-through exhaust pipes (megas we called them) as was the fashion at the time, and so, having heard my arrival, what seemed to be the entire family were waiting for me by the large front porch and oak door. At the head of the crowd was the object of my desire, and although dressed more conservatively than usual, Rebecca’s chest was magnificent in the afternoon sun. I had to look away in order to maintain an illusion of trouser politeness.
‘This is my father,’ said Becky. ‘My mum Mary, brother Joseph, sister Hannah…’ was there a pattern emerging here? ‘And this is Hannah’s boyfriend Carrington.’ 97 | P a g e
‘Carrington eh... Carri for short? I said with a bit of a sarcastic wiggle. Silence.... blank faces except for Carrington’s, whose expression told me that he had already suffered many a hearty piss-take in regard to his name. Not a good start for what was definitely going to be a very long afternoon.
The Reverend Devonshire broke this painful interlude with ‘You must be Guy.’ I thought, must I? Right now I’d sooner not be. He reluctantly extended his right hand, as if he was offering it up for twenty barbed wire lashes and noticeably winced when I took it and shook it like I was trying to dry it. ‘Come in, Mother has made some tea and sandwiches.’
All this time, Mother had been staring over my shoulder at my poor old BSA. As we crossed the threshold of the Vicarage, she turned to me and said: ‘Very loud... can’t image why anybody would find one of those things fun.’
Great, not a fan of motorcycling then!
Have you considered an alternative - a Morris Minor? Uncle Eustace had one of the first ones in Watford and he used to swear by it.’
I bet he did. Well, I wasn’t about to get into a debate about car versus bike so as we entered the sitting room I attempted a subject change.
‘So, Mr Devonshire... finished for the day?’
‘I have a funeral at four!’ he snapped. ‘And then evensong.’
‘Oh good,’ I said, totally inappropriately. Somewhere behind me, I heard Becky groan.
‘Sit, sit,’ said mother Mary. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes please,’ and some fucking opium would be nice, said the voices in my head. 98 | P a g e
So there we all sat... me, the brother, sister, the sister’s strangely-named boyfriend and the Rev Dev in the centre of the room framed by a stupidly oversized picture of a Victorian Gent who had an expression like he was sitting on a rusty spike. It’s true what’s said about the eyes of portraits following you around a room - this old Victorian ghost was judging me, just like all the rest of them.
With an atmosphere thicker than an Eskimo’s jock strap, it was almost a blessing when Mother tutted her way in from the kitchen with a tray of tea and then back a second time with the sandwiches. I was actually quite hungry and tried desperately to figure out the feeding protocol as no bugger was moving toward either tray, tantalisingly close to me on the large family table.
I furtively looked in Becky’s direction and raised my eyebrows. She guessed what I was wondering, and a tiny almost indiscernible rapid shake of her head told me what I needed to know. Whatever the outcome, I was not to be first in the queue.
Finally - mercifully - the sister took the initiative, as she probably had many times before, and poured herself and Carrington some tea. Instantly, brother Joe raided the small plates and filled one with sandwiches. I looked again at Becky and it became my turn as she rose and liberated a generous helping of sandwiches and tea for me.
Things had begun to lighten now calories and caffeine were present. Short conversations and interactions, some even including yours truly, occurred and I stopped watching the clock on the wall and the hideous portrait. Things seem to be going well... and then...
Haslet and tomato sandwiches washed down with two cups of sweet tea proved to be a deadly combination and it wasn’t long before particular 99 | P a g e movements in my lower belly heralded the oncoming of the dreaded social no-no which is commonly known as wind.
It starts slowly enough, and when you first feel it you pray that it’s just a small attack, a phantom that will slip out silently, unnoticed by either of the relevant senses but this is seldom the case, and before long what was just a containable ripple becomes a potential tsunami. When the feeling was initially upon me, I considered my options. I was in close proximity to two other parties, brother Joe and mother Mary, with Becky across the room opposite and next to her father. It was doubtful that the chair on which I was perched had cushions deep enough to stifle or camouflage any expected output, so I held tight and hoped that the conundrum would pass.
Of course it didn’t, why would it? and it wasn’t long before Becky spotted my constant shifting about and fidgeting.
‘You OK?’
I needed a solution, and when faced with the need of a private moment, a visit to the lavatory is a socially understandable excuse for an immediate exit.
‘I need to powder my nose Bex, I’ll just pop to the loo if I might. Is it upstairs?’
‘I think that one has a fault with the flush,’ she replied. ‘But you can use the temporary old one next to the kitchen.’
I hadn’t noticed before that there were structural improvements being carried out on the old vicarage. One of these improvements was that the kitchen was being made larger so the old toilet that was adjacent was due to be demolished. Subsequently, upon entering it, I was most distressed to discover that the entire brickwork partitioning wall was missing and had been replaced, for modesty’s sake, by an ultra-thin layer of plaster board. 100 | P a g e
It occurred to me at that time that this temporary structure would not be adequate enough to dampen the sound of the now inevitable explosion, and to add to my dilemma, I also really did need a piss.
Most teenage boys don’t give a flying fuck about bodily functions when in the company of their peers, but this alters significantly when that company consists of the opposite sex and/or their parents. Normally, if I had to drain the snake in a situation where I suspected the action would be overheard, as is often the case when in a small flat or cheaply-built semi, I would use the time-served tactic of lining the wall of the W.C. with toilet paper and kneeling on one knee so that the stream of wee didn’t have too far to fall. Thus the sound is deadened and dignity preserved. I would never, repeat, never consider a fully-fledged colonic evacuation in a strange house, so therefore, to prevent such an occurrence, locational bowel movement forward planning became second nature.
I was now experiencing a real dilemma. Have you ever tried to pee whilst attempting to imprison an anal hurricane? This is arguably the hardest thing a person could contemplate, requiring super human sphincter muscle and mental control. However, apart from a few high-pitched squeaks that slipped out in time with truncated spurts of wee, I pulled off the seemingly impossible and left the small room sans urine but still fully charged. Things were becoming untenable...
I must have had a face like a twisted beetroot when I re-entered the sitting room as Becky, now visibly concerned, met me halfway across the room and urgently whispered ‘Guy, what the fuck is the matter?’ And then it hit me... genius.
‘Looks like it might rain,’ I grimaced through gritted teeth, an explosion just seconds away. ‘Think I’d better go and move the BEESA under your big old oak tree. It’s a pig to start when it gets wet!’ 101 | P a g e
Becky was unimpressed. ‘That’s all you think about - your bike. Can’t you leave it?’
Joseph Devonshire came to my rescue. ‘Come on Bex, don’t nag... Guy, you can get to the garden through the French doors.’
I needed no more prompting and was through the French doors before Becky could argue. Spotting the bike off to my right, I made toward it with necessary haste and got just over half way before instinct compelled me to look over my shoulder where, to my absolute horror, I witnessed the entire clan following me into the garden. Why?
Apparently, The Rev Dev had once owned a motorbike, a BSA, and he actually fancied a little look-see. The rest, probably because they were bored out of their skulls, decided to tag along as well.
So now, having arrived at my bike, I am still not alone and unable to execute plan F, a rapid rethink threw up the obvious solution. It’s a motorbike... a very loud motorbike!! I’ll fucking start it up.
It’s not straightforward to fire up a 1968 A10 single carb, twin pot, plunger framed BSA. There are things that have to happen and they have to occur in order.
First you have to set the choke, then the advance and retard levers. After this, you prime the pots with a little petrol by pushing a small tit on the side of the carb. Next, you pull in the clutch lever and ease the kick start through one kick which frees off the clutch. Now you’re ready for the big bang. Having urgently completed all the aforementioned pre-flight steps, I placed my whole weight on the kick start and drove down as hard as I could. 102 | P a g e
It’s worth noting that I’d rebuilt and tuned this bike, it had never failed to start, never... except this one time!!
Inevitably, totally due to the immense effort of attempting to kick start the bike, what felt like a volcanic event broke forth from my lower regions and, just for a second, the relief was so overwhelming I totally forgot that I had an audience... as the longest fart I have ever liberated echoed about the gathering.
As the resonance faded into the distance, I looked around me. Rebecca’s face was ashen, her hands were holding her head in what I can only describe as absolute despair.
Mrs Devonshire had magically produced a handkerchief from a sleeve and had pressed it hard against her nose as the reverend held her back in a protective embrace. Joe and Carrington were sliding down the tree crippled by hysterics, while Hannah just stood shaking her head.
I had nothing to lose... so I said the only thing I could, as the chances of a return to the cricket score board on the edge of the green dwindled like a hard-on in a freezer.
‘Fuck me, the bike sounds rough today!’
It’s true to say that there were many such episodes in my life, and all of this may go a long way to explain why I’ve never settled down with a woman, never married and all that shit, or maybe I just wanted to tell you couple of my bullshit stories. You decide! 103 | P a g e
Chapter 20: A Magistrate’s Soldier
‘Do you like women?’
Frankly, it’s all too much effort to constantly appease another single human being, let alone parents, siblings or even friends. I’m a selfish bastard and that’s the way I like it and nobody puts up with that for long, nobody I’d want to share time with anyway.
‘You said you were forced to join up. How did you find yourself in the Army?’
Not by design... by the time I was in my late teens my reputation as a dickhead had excluded me from most of the female company available in my immediate area and I had to travel further afield. I was also becoming a thorn in the side of the local constabulary, being a proper scrapper and not having a father at home to answer to. When I broke a Coke bottle over a youth leader’s forehead for trying to stop me stealing the disco takings, they decided I needed a sharp lesson, and the next thing I knew I was in Cambridge nick with assault and actual bodily harm on my charge sheet.
Still under the impression that I could fight the world, I refused to confirm my address in court the following day and, egged on by an enthusiastic audience in the courtroom gallery, I sealed a ‘contempt of court charge’ by giving the magistrate the wanker sign after he got a right arse-ache when I said my name was Mike Hunt.
Result, remanded to HMP Usk /Prscoed in Monmouthshire, subject to social reports, and I tell you something from the heart, what a wakeup call... that was not an experience that I was willing to endure or repeat! All in all, I was not nearly as hard as I thought I was whereas everybody I met at Usk 104 | P a g e definitely fucking well was and two weeks later, back in court, I was ready to say anything the Magistrate wanted to hear.
As it turned out, the Youth Leader with the sore forehead was a ‘turn the other cheek’ type and decided he wasn’t going to press charges, bless his Jesus creep sandals. However, the Police weren’t as forgiving, as they had a raft of other stuff against me, plus the contempt of court charge meant I was due a term away, and I was truly terrified.
The Magistrate’s name was Alfred Nurse, ex Major Nurse, Royal Army Ordnance Corps, and he took the view that it was his job to make bad boys into good and useful citizens. How? Well, Major Nurse still had some sway with the RAOC Training Centre, Deepcut, and I could have kissed the old bugger when he offered me a choice.
‘The path you have chosen, Burrell, is one that will doubtless lead you back to this place and higher courts, time and time again. You have seen fit to thumb your nose at society’s rules and sensibilities. It is my duty to ensure that you are prevented from continuing to harm the innocent, and I intend to make sure that I do my duty.’
Here it comes, I thought, and braced myself.
‘I have it in my power to offer you an alternative to the custodial term I have in mind. That term will be no less than six months incarceration, and I do mean six months. However, my alternative offer is that you go, within two weeks of this judgement, to the recruitment offices for Royal Army Ordnance Corps and sign up for basic training at Deepcut barracks with a view to undertaking a fruitful and useful career in the Army. Should you fail to do this precisely as I have directed, a warrant will be issued for your immediate arrest and you will serve your sentence as passed in this court today.’ 105 | P a g e
I was dumbfounded. I knew from a friend who had signed for the Royal Anglians that basic training was only eighteen weeks and then only if I completed it... Ex-Major Nurse had said nothing about flunking out, he’d only mentioned signing up, so the way I saw it I could rock up, play with some guns and fuck off as soon as it was polite. Like I said, I could have kissed him.
In the control room below the court, the clerk bought me a neatly typed agreement which I signed without reading. Then I was booked out, my property returned and I was on a bus home within the hour. I remember thinking ‘Mugs!’
Later that week, it was the enduring memory of the terror of HMP Usk that ensured my presence in the recruiting office. They were expecting me and the whole business was wrapped up within a couple of hours. I passed medically fit for service, received my warrant, pay book, and travel orders. I was to be a soldier in the RAOC and my intake date was set in stone, there was no turning back now. From the 18th of February 1980, I was to be known as 24557897 Recruit Burrell. G.
Only my big sister knew where I had been during those two weeks in Usk. She told Mum that I was working away somewhere North. I wondered what the fuck I was going to tell her now, as a week before the 18th my placement notification and one way train ticket voucher to Farnborough mainline station for Blackdown Barracks Deepcut arrived on our doormat.
‘How did you finally tell your Mum about your recruitment?’
Typically, I made a hash of it and my poor old Mum was pretty upset, I assured her that I would be home in a couple of weeks maximum but obviously withheld certain information when she pleaded for a reason why I should consider such an unforeseen career decision.
‘Did she come around to the idea?’ 106 | P a g e
Not really, but on the eve of my departure, my mum and my sister cooked me a massive shepherd’s pie and cracked open a bottle of red wine from the Co- op. This was a well thought-out strategy on their behalf as I would have definitely spent the night down the Crown, and bad things would have happened. I left at zero six the next morning, an hour earlier then I had to so I didn’t have to put up with two bawling females; anyway, I was quite eager to get going.
Along the way, other potential recruits swelled the ranks and by the time we queued for the transports at Farnborough we numbered approximately one hundred. Even then, certain individuals were beginning to assert themselves over others. One in particular - an East Ender judging by his ‘fink’ and ‘fort’ accent - stood out from the rest, and I noticed lesser mortals desperately trying to form an alliance with him. He barged me out of the way when we were grabbing our kit from the four-tonner that collected us but I let it go, for now.
I found myself chatting to a Geordie lad who introduced himself as Dave Coulson. He was on his way to be an Engineer and he was keen as mustard. I liked him straight away as he had that bouncy Newcastle humour that sees a fun element in near enough everything around him. He was the first to spot the imposing figure standing like a ramrod waiting out front of the guard house at Blackdown.
‘ See tha’ bonny lad stood wa’in, yee thin leek his shit imsel.’
‘Maybe, Dave, but I’ll let you ask the question... probably wouldn’t understand you anyway.’
So there he was, perfectly upright and razor crisp complete with pace stick and boots polished to a mirror finish, his dress cap peak worn so far over his 107 | P a g e eyes that his head was bent back at forty-five degrees. He didn’t look pleased to see us.”
Chapter 21: The Legend of Sgt Major Jones.
Sgt Major Ken (Jonah) Jones was forty-one and coming to the end of his army career, and he had found himself posted to training duty. It was a little premature to be taken away from his unit, which was still very active in Ireland, but word had filtered down from 14 Intelligence Company, undercover surveillance, that he was on the notorious IRA hit list, and quite near the top at that.
During his four long-term tours of the six counties, the Sgt Major had first come to the attention of the IRA for the killing of three terrorists during a fire fight in ‘Operation Motorman’, the British Army’s successful attempt to take back the Derry's no-go areas in 1972. The killings were seen as executions and the Provos were bent on revenge.
He had also been a high-profile figure after he had rigorously embraced a section of RUC Chief Constable Kenneth Newman’s take on the Emergency Powers legislation, the part that emphasised that it was necessary ‘to subject suspected IRA members to intensive and frequently rough 7-day interrogation.’
Jonah was brought in to extract details about bomb-making techniques and had been ‘frequently rough’ on every occasion. His rationale was that he was getting information that was going to save the lives of many Felix operative comrades. It was rumoured that Martin McGuiness himself had ordered the Sgt Major’s assassination, so in 1978 he had been exiled to Deepcut and he wasn’t a happy bunny. 108 | P a g e
There was another very tangible reason for his enforced removal from active duty, and his being on a hit list had proved to be an adequate way to address this reason.
Although clearly a potent weapon in the British Army arsenal, the Sgt Major was seen as a bit of a publicity nightmare by the powers that be high up in 321 Coy, especially after it was reported that he had been heard saying how much he ‘sympathised with the IRA’ and ‘totally admired their patriotism’. It was agreed that Sgt Major Ken (Jonah) Jones’ career was to be truncated and ultimately brought to a dignified halt.
Jonah’s Achilles heel was that he liked good malt whisky and he had the misfortune of opening up in the Sgt’s mess one long night after a heavy session, and whilst in earshot of some passing guests from the Royal Bodyguard. They had thought better of taking him on in his own environment but had eagerly reported him to the C.O the next morning, and the old man had to act. The least he could do was fine the Sgt Major a week’s wages and assign him extra duties, but the main problem was that this episode was now on his service record and it was this that was to cost him his commission and the juicy pension that went with it.
It was generally felt that Jonah had been unfairly treated, but those who really knew him thought it inevitable that he would end his term as a warrant officer.
So here he was and, as was his nature, he determined to do his duty with professional gusto, and if this meant that some of the recruits that strayed into his steely gaze were not of sufficient moral fortitude, then they would have to leave without question and not soil his beloved regiment. His platoon Commanders, Sergeants and Corporals were all aware of this and therefore, at each passing out, the standard was very high and the numbers qualifying fairly low. Nobody wanted to get on the Sgt Major’s bad side. 109 | P a g e
Outside the Guard house on the early afternoon of 18th February 1980, Jonah Jones surveyed the latest intake of youthful hopefuls. He didn’t see faces, was not in the slightest bit interested in personalities, creeds or cultures, and didn’t give a damn for the fact that some of them had been travelling for hours. He stood there, absolutely alone, without any of his extensive training team behind him, as a message to the recruits that it was him and only him they had to impress. He was a believer in first impressions and, by God, their impression of him was going to be a real wakeup call that enforced the fact that they were now subject to a world of rigorous and unrelenting discipline.
In these first few minutes of introduction, he would be prepared to take on all comers, and there had been times when his bluff had been called and examples had been made. Unashamedly, Jonah enjoyed these episodes immensely, and would find the largest of the recruits and goad him mercilessly until the unfortunate recruit broke down or kicked off: either way he got the required result.
If you made it through basic training and then to Battalion, you soon discovered that Sgt Major Jones was a legend, and regarded with high esteem whenever his name cropped up, his exploits and the unconventional encouragement he utilised while making soldiers out of rabble were well documented, and many a conversation about him had highlighted some of his favourite training techniques. The main thing that everybody agreed on was when the whisky was flowing... best you make yourself scarce as bad things were going to happen. Nobody resented him for any of this, and everybody looked back on their basic training period with fond memories. Now it was time for Sgt Major Jonah Jones to make some more. 110 | P a g e
Chapter 22: Nurse’s Knackers.
‘What do you remember about your training?’
“Actually, the first two weeks were a nightmare. The only real recall I have of this period is of grabbing tons of kit and signing for everything in triplicate. At some stage, the MO took a look at my family jewels and a nurse stuck a blunt needle in my arse. Everybody shouted at me and I never seemed to be in my bed longer than a couple of hours, I have never been so tired in my life and for some reason the underlying opinion of the training staff was that I wasn’t tired enough.
One little episode does stick out sharper than that nurse’s needle. We got to know the training staff pretty quickly and a fine bunch of psychopathic jokers they were. The Sgt Major made his presence well known the second we arrived and took that big East Ender wanker apart - Dave and I enjoyed that, but the lad didn’t learn from it and just took his beasting out on one of the black recruits later that afternoon. I was thinking that this idiot could well be my ticket out of this situation.
Later that week, another recruit and I were dragged out of afternoon class and told that the Sgt Major wanted a word. This was a shame as the lesson was about gunshot wounds and the civvy teacher was just about to show us slides of Yank soldiers shooting steers.
The other lad I didn’t know that well yet. He was a morose bastard, though, and it seemed to me that he didn’t wanted to be in the army any more than I did. We stood outside the Sgt Major’s office without saying a word.
‘Burrell... Smith... double in.’
Smith, eh? That explained the incoherent muttering accent he had - the lad was obviously a gypsy! Didn’t think they went for this kind of shit. 111 | P a g e
‘Stand to attention. Doff caps. Name and number.’
‘24557897 Recruit Burrell, Sir.’ ‘24557861 Recruit Smith, Sir.’
The Sgt Major looked up from the paper he was reading. I remember his desk was laid out like a fucking circuit board, pens and papers all square and evenly spaced. Even the steam from his coffee went straight up at the absolute vertical, no doubt terrified to do otherwise. I didn’t blame it... if he had told me to remove my own teeth with an ice pick I’d have hacked away like Sherpa fucking Tenzing.
‘Don’t call me Sir... I work for a living!’
Actually the use of ‘Sir’ was correct, him being a Warrant Officer. Jones just didn’t like it, so we learned only to use it in public or on parade. He looked up and sighed: ‘Just what I need - a pair of Nurse’s Knackers!’
I made the mistake of greeting this strange statement with ‘excuse me?’ and then my eardrum exploded as the Corporal on my right helpfully informed me that I was only to speak when spoken to. I thought I had been spoken to. What the fuck were the rules?
Jones continued: ‘You are here because the boss is chummy with an ex Major called Nurse who thinks he can save society from wayward young men by making them my problem. You are knackers, therefore you are Nurse’s Knackers and there are a pair of you.’
Clever... now show us a card trick, you tosser, I thought. The Sgt Major closed in on me and spoke directly in my ear.
‘Burrell, Guy. Violent behaviour and attempted theft from a youth club disco. We have a real life Al Capone here, lads. Offensively ugly as well, in fact your 112 | P a g e ugly mug is going to mess up my passing-out parade photograph, Burrell. You may have to wear the regimental ugly hood.’
Turning his head slightly to the right, he now spoke to Smith in the same dulcet manner.
‘Smith, Nathan. Taking cars from people without their consent, and a confidence trickster who steals pensions from old soldiers, and... a pikey. We’ll have to hold the passing-out parade in secret, or maybe a field, so your thieving scummy relatives don’t turn up and nick the fucking lead off of the officers’ mess roof.’
So that’s why Smith looked out of place - me and him were victims of the same circumstances that brought us to this place and this moment. That is, we both got caught.
‘Gentlemen, I just wanted to take this opportunity to get to know you and to demonstrate my amazing powers of mind reading.’ He placed a hand on each of our foreheads and pretended to shake as if in some kind of prophetic moment.
‘My goodness,’ he snapped, removing his hands from our heads and placing them on his own. ‘You both appear to be thinking that all you will have to do is to fail my wonderful and exciting basic training and you’ll be off the hook and back home to your spotty, wasteful little lives.‘ He returned to his desk and opened a drawer from which he produced a pouch of black tobacco and some green papers. All I could think was... Oh Fuck.
‘No Gentlemen, no, I’m not going to fail you. You are in a unique situation in which you are to have special attention. I don’t normally give a rat’s arse and would sooner never have had you dirty up my Sgt Major’s office’s army green rug, but in this instance a duty of responsibility has been levied upon us all, and your failure will reflect directly on me and my staff.’ 113 | P a g e
He lit his newly-made cigarette and threw another to the Corporal, who was now sitting impassively in a red imitation leather chair, having probably heard all this shite a thousand times. The tobacco was called something obscure like ‘old wankers rub’ and the pungent smell of the smoke was quite pleasant; it reminded me of my own Dad and happier days watching Miss World or News at Ten just before bed on a Sunday.
‘You will disappoint me - everybody does - but it’s the level of that disappointment that will mean the difference between just a painful eighteen weeks and a crushingly agonising eighteen weeks. The outcome will be the same whatever. Now fuck off.’
‘Caps on, ‘bout turn, march out.’
On the way back to the classroom, Smith was muttering something about doing a runner and disappearing up North, I reckoned that if it was that easy he’d have already done it. As for myself, I was disturbed that I detected this emerging feeling that I actually wanted to do well for the Sgt Major. What the fuck was all that about, and how had he got to me?
I comforted myself that all this bullshit would soon put paid to any of that stupidity and then wondered how Jones could possibly even come close to enforcing his preaching. There would have to be more than a little cooperation, and that was never going to happen.
The gypsy lad was not present next morning on parade. The Sgt Major looked like he was ready to rip my head off, but he settled for making the whole of Smith’s section clean their shower room with their own toothbrushes.
I was astonished that I felt ashamed that Smith hadn’t made a go of it at least for a month or so. I felt that his going over the wall reflected on me somehow. Apart from that, Smith had run away, which seemed to me that he’d let Jones frighten him off and that the Sgt Major had beaten him. 114 | P a g e
‘It annoyed you that Jones had beaten him?’
Yes it did, and so my fucked-up take on this now was that I would leave when I was ready, but not before I showed the bastards that I could take what they dished out. They were not going to frighten me off, even if it meant that I would make pass-out and then tell Jones to shove it up his jacksie.
The Sgt Major was a busy soldier as it turned out, so the task of constant character-building, which was actually covert humiliation, fell to the Corporals (full screws) Lance Corporals (lance Jacks) the Platoon Sergeant (ours was called Rolfe) and the Platoon Commander (the Rupert).
The NCOs were all time-served lads who’d been out and done it, they weren’t a friendly bunch but then they had no need to be. The Platoon Commanders were usually Sub Lieutenants (or Subalterns, which literally means Subordinate). They were sometimes fresh from Sandhurst and spent most of their time with the admin.
The real boss was the Sergeant, and it wasn’t unusual to hear exchanges between the two ranks such as ‘excuse me, Sir, but you’re talking absolute bollocks’ or ‘for fuck’s sake, Sir, go and make a brew’ whenever a keen and inexperienced Subaltern tried to impose his will. Our Platoon Commander was called Phipps. Don’t get me wrong, the lad had won his commission fair and square, but he was a complete twat and didn’t last long. That’s another story.
The other curse of our worthless lives were the PTIs, nasty little sadists that in my opinion had far too much to say for themselves and actually still do. One of these was the battalion boxing champion - one afternoon in the old hanger that was our gym, he gave me a boxing ‘lesson’ that resulted in me having to have the swelling around my eye drained so I could see to pass my marksman’s exam the next day. I wondered why I had been singled out for such an honour. 115 | P a g e
It was after this so-called lesson, sitting in the medical wing, that I’d realised something about myself I hadn’t seen before: I didn’t like to be beaten and I wouldn’t back down, even if that meant extending the experience beyond the original point.
In this instance, the reason that I enjoyed such a thorough beasting was that I had continuously got back up each time he floored me which, frankly, was pretty stupid.
Maybe this was a just reason for Sgt Rolfe to put me on Platoon Commander’s report for ‘injury to person resulting from self-infliction’.
Phipps gave me one night’s extra guard duty and let the incident be noted on my record. ‘You have embarrassed your section, Burrell. The army needs thinking soldiers, not idiots with chips on their shoulders.’ Once again, I found myself wondering what the rules were as later I discovered that in the forthcoming night of inter-platoon boxing, or ‘milling’ as it is commonly known, I was listed to fight Willis, the bully boy from east London.
That weekend, I stood freezing cold in a sentry box on the edge of the camp perimeter, armed only with a pick axe handle as Her Majesty definitely wasn’t going to trust me out on my own with a rifle as yet.
Just after midnight, a Land Rover roared up, and out jumped Sgt Major Jones, obviously having availed himself of the gift of the Sergeant’s Mess whisky store. As laid down in the handbook, I challenged him with the time-served ‘Who goes there?’ and then realised I was pointing my pick axe handle at him and felt really stupid.
‘Mickey fucking Mouse, and what are you going to do about it?’ 116 | P a g e
A simple ‘Sgt Major Jones’ would have been adequate, and then I could have finished the exchange with a flourishing ‘Step forth, Sgt Major Jones, and be recognised’.
‘Is that pick axe handle loaded, Burrell?’
‘No Sgt Major.’ I replied, regretting I’d said it even as I was saying it.
‘Thought I’d nip out and spend some quality time with my last remaining knacker.’ He walked to the side of the sentry box and took a leak. The driver of the Land Rover, obviously expecting a bit of a wait, sparked up and sat back in his seat.
‘In case you were wondering, a little bird told me that you like to fight, so I had a word in the gym.’
It was then I stopped wondering and realised that it had been him that had suggested to the PTIs that I have an extended boxing lesson and then fight Willis.
‘You cold?’
‘No, Sgt Major.’
‘See, that’s your problem right there. Of course you’re fucking cold, but you’re too stupid to say.’
He reached inside his battle dress and produced a small flask.
‘Are you or are you not fucking cold, Recruit Burrell?’
I looked at him straight in the eye: ‘No Sgt Major, I am not fucking cold.’
He poured some coffee into the lid of the flask and took a sip. ‘All right sunshine, fair enough. So you’re hot, then! Take your overcoat and gloves off!’ 117 | P a g e
I did as ordered, and the biting March night air hit me like I’d just stepped into a butcher’s freezer. Jones balanced the flask on the bonnet of the Drover and took the kit off of me. Taking his time, he neatly folded the coat and put the gloves in the pocket. After placing them in the back of the Land Rover, he retrieved the flask from the bonnet, opened it, and poured the contents over my boots and trousers. The heat of the coffee scalded through to my cold legs and made me jump back.
‘Your kit will be in the guard house, make sure you launder your battledress and shine your boots before I have to see your ugly mug on parade tomorrow. Have a good night, Burrell, might be a plan to move about a bit.’ He made his way to the Drover and paused by the passenger door.
‘Oh, and by the way, about Willis and the milling... on the night, he’ll try to make an impression. Let him knock you about at the start - you can take it and he’ll burn himself out. The PTI ref will have a moan if you aren’t giving it back but that won’t matter if you come back hard, and the rest of the fight will be like shooting apples in a barrel. Don’t disappoint me, lad.’
And, with that, the driver stubbed out his fag and as he climbed into the Drover, looked over to me, piss wet through and freezing, and shook his head. I silently mouthed ‘fuck you’ but as the Drover disappeared I wished to God I’d taken the bastard coffee. When I got relieved at just after zero three hundred it felt like I was nearing hypothermia and then I discovered that Jones had indeed left my kit at the guard house, and added an extra night to my punishment duty.
The next morning I was in bits. I’d had no more than two hours’ sleep, with my head propped up against a washing machine and then a dryer. My eye throbbed like a bastard, but as I was sure that Jones would study me like a hawk studies a mouse, my kit and general visage was pristine. Then, helpfully, as I stood at the attention, one of the corporals whispered in my ear ‘fancy a 118 | P a g e coffee, Burrell - might warm you up a bit?’ Last night’s adventure was obviously now common knowledge.
‘What was Jones’ reaction to you?’
The Sgt Major didn’t even give me a second glance as he read out first part orders to the assembled troops... he knew that a personal inspection wasn’t required. The next night, as the RMP four-tonner dropped me off at the sentry box, the duty driver handed me a flask of coffee. ‘Make sure this gets a wash up and gets returned.’
‘Where to?’ I said.
‘Sergeants’ Mess, you dipshit. Where do you think?!’ 119 | P a g e
Chapter 23: The Art of ‘Milling’.
‘Tell me about this milling, what is it?’
‘Milling’, short for wind-milling, basically means waving your arms wildly about whilst attempting to batter in the head of your opponent.
It’s a one-minute bout of controlled aggression, although that minute can be extended if the assembled audience are enjoying the carnage. Boxing skills are not required and if you ponce about trying block or duck you are going to get told to ‘stop arsing about and fight’.
Fair enough, suited my style and outlook to a tee, but Willis was a big bastard and I thought long on the Sgt Major’s kindly combat tips. Was he setting me up for another humiliation or did he genuinely want me to flatten the big East Ender?
This was my dilemma: if I did what the Sgt Major told me and I beat Willis, then Jones would have another one on me, already having scored one point because, although I considered taking the flask of coffee back to the Sgt’s mess without drinking a drop, I wasn’t up for another stint of guard duty. So I’d drunk it and cleaned the flask. Yep… one more point to the Sgt Major.
The other way was to fight my own fight and probably get a beating... I didn’t much care for another beating, but it wasn’t that aspect of the night’s events that bothered me, I just really didn’t want Willis to come away all happy and empowered. It was up to me to make myself truly known to him in the only way he would understand, and the personal satisfaction would give me a hard-on for weeks...
On the night, the enforced gladiators of RAOC C coy recruits spring intake sat on hard gym benches in their various platoons. The audience of NCOs and Officers, some with their wives, sat immediately in front of the ring. As I took 120 | P a g e my place on death row, I noticed that one of the reserved chairs at the front of the ring was empty. A further recce revealed that a certain Sgt Major was in attendance but was stood at the temporary bar behind us all, talking to the Physical Training Instructor OC.
As the night’s master of ceremonies addressed the excited assembly, Willis’s square-jawed and large Neanderthal-browed head was pointing directly at yours truly. His expression was one of sheer delight, and reminded me of a fat kid looking at a five pound Easter egg. I stared back and raised my eyebrows in an ‘I don’t really give a fuck’ kind of way, but neither of us was convinced.
‘So you were scared, right?’
No... I wasn’t scared, really I wasn’t, but I’d sooner not have had to fight, whereas my opponent was taking it all very seriously. As young Willis pretended to spit on his fist and held it toward me, I decided I would take the Sgt Major’s advice.
A milling night is a strange affair, not like a boxing night. As the first few annihilations and humiliations took place, I was struck that the levels of noise went from hugely loud to dead silence as the recruits were allowed to encourage their mates only during the actually physical action and then shut up completely as soon as the referee halted it to wipe blood off a protagonist, or if any fighter was knocked down - and plenty were.
And then...
‘Willis, representing B section Borneo Platoon.’
‘Burrell, representing B section Balaclava Platoon, step up.’
I avoided looking at Willis as I climbed smartly into the ring. He took his time, and I was aware of his eyes burning into my back as I limbered up in my corner. I was also aware that Sgt Major Jones had at last taken his seat. So 121 | P a g e this was to be the main attraction, eh? I tell you truly... You have no idea how much this all had begun to piss me off. I turned toward Willis and thought ‘Right, let’s get this shit over with.’
‘Take centre ring... Protect yourself... one minute... GO!’
Willis immediately bludgeoned forward and caught me three times square on my face and forehead before I could throw a single windmill arm back. As I have always discovered, you are never really prepared for the power of your opponent; therefore it’s always a real surprise when the first few punches connect, and I fell back against the ropes and slid down onto the canvas as Willis continued to pummel me. The cacophony of noise that had greeted this assault died instantly as the ref motioned me to rise - there was no ten count at these affairs. As the ref wiped the blood from my nose, notably using the very same cloth he’d used all evening, I was buoyed up by the fact that nothing Willis could throw would be harder than the punches I had just enjoyed, as he had punished my poor bruised nose when at the height of his energy and exuberance... and even now he was panting slightly. The Sgt Major was right - he was going to burn out. I glanced over at Jonah and he nodded covertly back.
‘Hold your hands up... continue.’
Straight away, I found myself back on the ropes, Willis raining down blows as fast as his lumbering frame would allow, spitting out spent breath and jarring me to the very core. The noise from the crowd seemed to be all centred on encouraging Willis to batter me, no doubt mostly from those who didn’t desire a fate similar to mine. This time, I didn’t fall, and when the ref decided to intervene I was still relatively unscathed, although I was struggling to breathe through my nose. Willis, however, was beginning to gasp and his barrage had definitely begun to lessen in resolve. As the ref replaced my gum shield, I glanced back at Jones. This time he held three fingers up against his 122 | P a g e face, so only I could see, as he informed me that there was only thirty seconds remaining.
‘Fight back, Burrell, or I’ll disqualify you.’ I nodded. I was going to fight back all right.
Willis was searching for a knock-out now and the pain of exertion showed clearly as he grimaced and swung widely. With twenty seconds to go he launched forward with all his remaining effort. As the punch missed my ear by a good three inches and carried straight on, the right side of his thick head was completely exposed and I caught him hard on the temple with my right hand. As it landed, I felt the impact through my glove. It was clean and it was solid and the surprised look on Willis’s face as the blow registered on his single functioning brain cell inspired me wonderfully. Stunned, he turned back to face me and I really let fly with all the hate I could muster. The gym had become suddenly very subdued as I landed punch after punch, and there was hardly a murmur as the once mighty Willis crashed like a tipped cow onto the blood-spattered floor of the ring. However, there was at least one person there present shouting...and it was me.... ‘Fucking get up, you shit-head!!!’ Willis was struggling to stand, and I was very eager to get back to business.
The referee thrust his hand against my chest, driving back toward my corner. ‘That’s enough of that, Burrell, don’t be using that kind of language in polite company!!’ No doubt referring to the motley collection of Army wives who attended these contests for whatever reason.
As Willis finally managed to rise, I turned toward Jonah for a third time and this time the old man just put his index finger to his lips. OK, I get it, and now to make my example.
Having painfully risen, Private William Willis, the bully boy from the East End of London now waited. He was beaten, but hoping for the ref to call time and 123 | P a g e a draw. I wasn’t going to allow that to happen and neither was the ref. It’s always good form and entertaining when the underdog makes the grade. The ref wasn’t about to spoil the show by ending a fight that had potential.
Willis threw his last punch of the night as I closed on him, a left hook which hardly had enough power to slap the sweat from my face. I took it without blocking to show him my utter contempt and retaliated with a right upper cut to his floating ribs. As he buckled to half his height, I finished him with a street fighter’s left hand, coming down with all my weight on his jaw. He wasn’t getting up this time and the fight was over.
With the adrenalin coursing and the sheer fury of my inner being bursting from me, I reluctantly left a ring that I hadn’t wanted to enter just a few minutes previously. With eyes blazing, I looked toward the Sgt Major’s seat, but he wasn’t there... the bastard was back at the bar and had won his point, hands down.
As the evening had to go on regardless, Willis was unceremoniously dragged from the ring and ferried off to the MO. As he passed me on the gurney, I stupidly couldn’t resist giving him a two-fingered salute which promptly earned me a very public dressing-down from Sergeant Rolfe, who put me on Platoon Commander’s report for a second time that month, this time for ‘unsporting behaviour.’ 124 | P a g e
Chapter 24: Always the Hard Way, eh, Son?
‘How was Willis after the fight? Did you make friends?’
Christ, no... The Willis and Burrell saga wasn’t over yet, however. I was still pretty sure I didn’t want to stay in this army, and Willis being Willis was to provide me with an unquestionable reason for my removal. Or so I thought...
Just one week later, I was in the mess hall with Dave Coulson. Willis had been strangely quiet and somehow we had not crossed each other’s paths. There had been a rumour floating around that he wasn’t happy with the result of our bout, though, and some had suggested that revenge might be on the cards.
As Dave and I sat, Dave moaning about his webbing burns and me trying to dissect the slab of concrete that passed itself off as porridge, Willis appeared, leering over Dave’s left shoulder, pushing him out the way so he could stare directly at me across the table.
“You fink you fucking beat me but you didn’,” snarled the pride of Bow. “It’s different aht in the street, ain’t no rules aht in the street!”
I let the double negative slide by, as highlighting the error would not have led to enlightenment.
“What are you suggesting, Willis? Do you think you were bothering me with your wet girly punches?”
I sat motionless, staring right back at the square-jawed idiot. Even though I hated him, I was grateful and excited. He was my ticket out of the madness. I slowly shifted my weight over my legs so that I could rise swiftly, and prepared for the flat-out bar fight that was about to ensue. This would inevitably be followed by a large degree of NCO intervention, during which I 125 | P a g e would ‘accidentally’ whack a Corporal... during the height of combat as it were.
Short of sleeping with the Brigadier’s wife, I couldn’t image anything else that would be guaranteed to get me a month in Colchester and then freedom...
Again I had failed to factor Sgt Major Ken (Jonah) Jones into the equation. You’ll see why later.
The mess fell silent, attention focussed on my table, now my arena... recruits nudged each other expectantly. Many had prophesied a violent encounter and this was going to be good. The staff present didn’t feel the same, all this meant for them was more paperwork. I clocked their sour expressions and thought ‘best you fucking brace yourselves, lads.’
Willis was dumbfounded. As my words sank in he began to shake with fury, like a kettle lid wobbling and steaming and getting set to blow. I could see his dilemma, because even though he was thicker than the porridge, he was well aware that mess hall sparring wouldn’t be advantageous to his immediate future. I had called his bluff in front of all present, clearly and directly challenged him, and he was obviously unsure of his next move.
I decided to encourage him some more.
Taking my plate in my right hand I stood as swiftly as I could and pushed the porridge into his face. That fucking worked...
Willis exploded. Even as he was wiping the tepid Scottish national dish from his eyes, he lashed out in my direction. The table flew over and caught me on my shin as, too late, my unfortunate dining companion received a swinging left hand on his Geordie ear, which sent him sprawling. Confused, Willis turned to kick him but I leant over the upturned table and caught the big square jaw with a right cross. Dave took the opportunity to scramble clear as 126 | P a g e
Willis, screaming like an air raid siren, turned back and grabbed me by the tunic and swung me clear of the table. I didn’t stand a chance close quarter against the Londoner’s strength and enjoyed a hearty head butt to the bridge of my nose. I wondered why it was taking so long for the bastard training staff to arrive.
The blow closed my eyes, and blood began to flow profusely from my nose, making me cough red spit. I reacted blindly and jabbed my thumb hard into Willis’s Adam’s apple. As I did so, I tightened my fingers around his carotid artery and twisted as hard as I could. This little street fighting trick worked a treat, and Willis was forced to release his left hand to counter the pressure. Then, at last, the cavalry decided to take part, and as one massive full screw grabbed Willis from behind in a head lock another bent my right hand away from Willis’s neck into a ‘goose neck’ hold, causing instant, undeniable discomfort. I went down with the technique, as resisting would mean broken wrist bones for sure.
Now on my belly, with my arm higher up my back than I considered physically possible, and a knee forcing my cheek into the hard lino floor, I looked over to my opponent who, in his fury, had not yielded with timely politeness to the will of the law. This, of course, was resulting in at least three large bodies donating a plethora of strikes and kicks to the cause and eventually even the mighty Willis ceased the struggle and was subdued.
Then the Royal Military Police arrived and donated two pairs of handcuffs. With our hands restrained behind our backs, night sticks were jammed between the cuffs and wrists and, on our toes, we were set in motion toward the guard house. We left the mess hall amid a flurry of cheers and jeers. I was on my way... and could only ride out the consequences now.
The single cell had condensation dripping off the green- and beige-coloured walls. One itchy grey blanket, stretched across a solid wooden bench bolted to 127 | P a g e the floor, seemed almost apologetic for pretending to offer comfort to a wrong-doer in his or her time of need.
The RMPs don’t turn the lights out and they don’t offer pain killers for errant recruits with broken noses and bruised wrists. I kept myself buoyant and optimistic with the promise of freedom, which would mean lie-ins until eleven hundred and Mum’s cooking. I reckon I had been there most of the day when the cell door swung outward and fully open.
‘Tho’ I’ve belted you an’ flayed you, By the livin’ god that made you, You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!’
It was Sgt Major Jones. He stood in the entrance to the cell, bolt upright, pace stick under his arm, obligatory cup of steaming coffee in his hand.
‘Rudyard Kipling wrote that. Would you like to hear it all, Burrell?’
I thought I’d better consolidate my position as current... ‘Go fuck yourself, Sgt Major,’ I replied.
‘Always the hard way, eh, son?’ His demeanour hadn’t changed one iota. The Sgt Major entered the cell, immaculate mirror-finished boots rattling on the stone floor. He sat down on the bench and balanced his pace stick against the wall.
‘You probably think that you are a problem to me and my beloved regiment. I’ll go further and suggest that you may consider your actions to be unique and without precedent. Am I right?’
As I sat watching the man meticulously sipping his coffee by the numbers... sip, two three, preach, two three, sip... I wasn’t really listening, surely he had 128 | P a g e no choice... he had to fucking bin me, I was out of control and I’d just told him to go fuck himself. He offered the mug to me and gave a little nod as if to say ‘your turn’.
I remembered the last time I’d refused his offer of coffee and, as I was only wearing my green standard infantry issue underwear, I took the mug and shared the beverage within.
‘Fact is... you’re nothing in the scheme of things, really... sorry to disappoint you but when I leave here tonight I will not give your situation a single thought. Nor will the regiment, nor will my training team. Nobody anywhere will give a flying fuck, son. Do you know why?’
If there was one thing I was sure of sitting there, half-naked in a cell in the guard house at Blackdown Barracks Deepcut, it was that he was absolutely going to tell me why, so I kept silent.
‘Simple,’ he continued. ‘Because we have seen it all before and the Army has a regulation or answer for every situation, attitude or action that it might encounter. No matter how trivial or how major, there is and always will be a solution. This makes my job and the jobs of my team very easy. Ergo, Burrell... no fucker gives a damn when a knacker such as you seeks to try to upset the regimental apple cart.’
He stretched out his hand and beckoned for the return of the mug. I dutifully obliged, my heart sinking. What the fuck was going to happen now...?
Jones rose smartly and retrieved his pace stick, wiped condensation from the top, polished the brass end with a piece of lint he had produced from a pocket somewhere, and spun on his heel to leave. As he passed through the cell door, he said: ‘You and Willis will report to me in the morning!’ As the heavy steel 129 | P a g e door closed and echoed through the building, I listened to the click clack of his tread growing fainter, and noted that he didn’t visit Willis.
At zero six thirty, the guard house came to life with the night staff handing over to the day staff. During the hand-off, each occupied cell is visited, and the sorry contents within inspected and questioned as to their well-being and treatment thus far. Naturally it’s pointless to proffer complaint or suggestion for improvement, although I’m sure many did, probably just the once.
At zero seven hundred a bar of soap, bucket and towel appear and a visit to the ‘heads’ or toilets is permitted, previous visits during the night being made by request and at the benevolence of the duty Corporal.
All being well, and subject to another inspection, breakfast arrives at seven thirty. By zero eight, after a leisurely half hour of allotted consumption time, short-term guests are paraded before the duty Sergeant for further process to occur.
So it was with severe trepidation that both Willis and I stood to attention in front of the high desk that was the barrier between the good and the bad, not knowing what was to come next. We both knew that it wasn’t going to be hearts and flowers, but the ignorance of outcome can be fucking terrifying.
The bastard sergeant was in no hurry to deal with us and was inspecting two ranks of twelve-week recruits, who were off on three days pre-stage two leave. They looked as nervous as we did, as there were still many opportunities for denial of leave if you had neglected to shave properly or your travel permit was incorrectly filled in.
As I waited for execution, I wondered why senior NCO’s were always in a bad mood. It was like they hated life and people. I didn’t take all this personally, as they graciously spread their mood around evenly amongst the lower 130 | P a g e classes. This particular RMP Sergeant, nicknamed Harry the hernia because he had a permanently red face and his name was Harry Streign, was not a large man but had a massive presence. He wore a thin, grey, almost pointless moustache like he was underlining his nose. The name ‘Rangers’ was tattooed on his forearm. I remember him, resplendent in full kilt, as he strutted around the barracks like he owned the place. Many a day-dreaming recruit had fallen foul of his patrols and consequently had been brought back to earth most uncomfortably. I had certainly been amongst that number. My crime? Bent arms, sloppy gait and fluff on my berry!! Saying ‘sorry’ hadn’t helped.
‘Stand fucking still!’ The ninety-five decibel request almost shattered my eardrum and made me jump out of my skin, which instantly resulted in the request being repeated in the other ear.
‘By the right... name and number.’
‘24557897 Recruit Burrell, Sergeant.’
‘24557888 Recruit Willis, Sergeant.’
‘Yee are jointly charged tha’ at zero seven sixteen yesterday morning yous acted with violence tay-ward each other and training staff contrary tay regulations, and that due tay your actions injuries were suffered by yourselves and third parties. I have to tell yous now that statements ha’ been taken that substantiated these charges and therefore yous are baith guilty as charged. Do either of yee have anything t’ say?’
At this point the wise man remained statuesque with absolutely nothing to say. I was yet to embrace this wisdom.
‘Sergeant... I wish to state...’ And that was as far as I got before the remnants of my eardrums were shattered once more. 131 | P a g e
‘Recruit Burrell... shut the fuck up! Stand still, eyes forward, you fucking knacker.’
From behind the desk, the massive Jock full screw that had pinned Willis yesterday morning threw a pair of handcuffs which struck Willis full on the chest bone, making him gasp out loud. The Sergeant said: ‘Put them on, your right arm to Burrell’s left arm.’ Willis did as told.
‘Double to Sgt Major Jones’ office for punishment, go.’
Accompanied by the full screw, and witnessed by an entire parade, Willis and I attempted to march at the double, even though marching at any speed meant swinging opposing arms chin-high to your marching leg, and clearly our jointly cuffed arms would not allow this. It was a shambles, and no matter how much our escort screamed abuse at us, it just wasn’t possible. We arrived in due course at Jones’ office door and waited in the corridor for him to finish morning parade. Our escort sat on an adjacent window ledge and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke through the half-opened window. Willis and I breathed heavily and tried to ignore each other.
Jones arrived with two of his training staff, nodded to the Jock corporal and stood in front of Willis and yours truly.
‘Good morning lads, I trust you had a restful night.’
‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant Major,’ we replied in unison.
‘So restful you can’t be bothered to stand at the attention?’
We instantly snapped to attention and I winced as Willis’s arm straightened, making the sharp edge of the cuffs cut hard into my wrist bone. The Sgt Major clocked my discomfort.
‘Problem with your wrist, Burrell?’ 132 | P a g e
‘No, Sergeant Major.’
‘I understand that there is some bad blood between you gents.’
‘No, Sergeant Major,’ replied Willis. I didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow.
‘Don’t worry,’ Jones continued. ‘It happens. You’ll be happy to know that I have a perfect solution for you, a remedy that will bring you closer than a man is to his wife... in fact I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t end up being our very first inter-platoon marriage.’
The big Jock sniggered, but the other NCO’s stood menacingly either side, not taking their eyes off of us. Again I felt the icy wave of pre-punishment anticipation.
‘You need to become reliant on each other in such a way that conflict and juvenile vendettas are counter to your comfort and wellbeing. So, you are to remain cuffed to each other for the next week’
‘Clever... how did you feel about that bombshell?’
Well I thought fffuuuckkkk!!! Was he serious? Oh yes, he was serious... then he said... ‘As a concession, as you are from different platoons and to prevent any pre- marital goings-on, contrary to my strict religious upbringing, you will be allowed to sleep apart, but for the best part of the day, you will be as you are now.’
As this sunk in, visions of toilet usage and showering whilst being tethered to this fucking oaf flooded my head. Willis groaned long and deep, as he must have had similar thoughts. 133 | P a g e
The Sgt major dismissed us. One of the full screws called right turn, march out. Of course, as we spun ninety degrees to our right, my left arm was forced back as Willis snapped his arm straight down, thumb pushed against the seam of his combat trousers. Again, the cuffs punished me.
134 | P a g e
Chapter 25: In Danger of Becoming Soldiers.
The next week turned out to be... well I’m going to say interesting. Very soon, our wrists were purple with bruising and this was even after swapping arms, my left to Willis’s right and vice versa. We had to work together, or somebody was going to end up on a sickie.
After the first day, we stopped snarling at each other and began to work it all out.
First contact came from the Londoner. ‘Fuck this shit,’ said Willis while leaning up against the outside of a toilet block, arm at full stretch, matching mine as I attempted an evacuation, balanced dangerously near to the seat‘s edge. ‘I’m coming in!’
‘Your choice, bud,’ I said, hoping he didn’t really mean it.
‘Listen ‘ere, Burrell. My wrist is caning... I’m fucking coming in. I’ve bin finking we shudden move our arms when we march but I dunno ‘ow we’ll manage on the ranges. Wot you reckon?’
‘No problem, Willis, the ranges will be easy. It’s the assault course that’ll fuck us!’
I decided the evacuation process was over and the paperwork should ensue.
‘We have to complete the course in eight minutes or we’ll have to repeat the bastard. We can make the run, rope climb, balance tests and the wall, but the pipe will be our nemesis.’
The pipe was a twenty-foot concrete crawl-through in three foot of water.
‘Nemeewot?’ said Willis as I attempted a left hand front to back wipe with as much dignity as possible, and doing this whilst cuffed to a six foot donkey who 135 | P a g e was simultaneously trying to scratch his ear using the arm that was cuffed to mine, and with the fingers on his other hand firmly holding his nostrils closed.
‘Downfall, William, it means downfall!’ I surprised myself that I’d used his first name.
‘We’re going to need to have a recce. Let’s jog down to the course tonight after they take the fucking cuffs off. We should be able to work it out in some way.’
Willis nodded, and then laughed at my efforts to pull up my underwear one- handed. Just for a second, a fleeting second mind you, I warmed to him a bit. Then I realised and stopped.
‘You know wot the ovvers are calling us Burrell?’
‘No, enlighten me.’
‘Fuckin odd couple, like those yank blokes on the box... Waw’er Maffyew and Jack Lemon!’
‘His name is Matthau... and believe me Willis, It could be a lot worse than the odd couple.’
Willis grunted and then gave me a very strange, almost intelligent look.
‘Let’s show ‘em Guy, they wan’ us to fuck-up and I aint playin’. Bollocks to Jones, I say.’
And so it was, on a cold March evening, that Guy Burrell and William Willis, mortal enemies, became partners against the common enemy that was the system. Or so we thought. In fact, what we didn’t realise was the absolute opposite was happening and we were in danger of becoming soldiers. Willis and I duly met as planned, armed with torches liberated from an unlocked four-tonner and crouching like ninjas to avoid unfriendly attention, we crept 136 | P a g e our chilly way to the arse-end of the camp where the assault courses were located.
For the next hour and a half we held hands and ran through the assault course processes required to complete the bastard without embarrassment or injury. We’d both been across it before, but now we learned it, and strategies were formed. I actually quite enjoyed it.
Exhausted, we finally made our way back to our respective accommodations. As I ran my bruised wrist under cold water, Dave Coulson, who being my mate was in the know, asked me how it went. ‘Bloke’s a dickhead, Dave, can’t stand him!’ I had no doubt Willis was saying exactly the same to members of his section. The next day at breakfast, even though tethered as usual, we practically ignored each other, people were watching. That’ll be the gift of male pride then...’ 137 | P a g e
Chapter 26: Faster, Longer, Harder.
The British Army assault course consists of walls ranging from chest height to over eight foot. Courses may have ‘monkey bars’ designed to test upper body and arm strength, most will have a swing over a water-filled trench, or a crawl through muddy ditch. There are variations and additions such as balance walls and Tarzan swings. Usually, the course ends with a cable slide and short run.
In the cold March morning, the course at Deepcut was shrouded in a low freezing mist; there was ice on the water obstacles, thick at the edges but unable to support the weight of a recruit elsewhere.
The rutted mud and remnants of grass had been frozen solid, and it would be hard to maintain grip. Also, throughout the course, metal bars, ropes, tops of walls, were all slippery with the stubborn frost covering them, and waited in the stillness for the careless, unwary or just unlucky. At the best of times, this course was designed to tax, and the pass/fail time of eight minutes was set to reveal the unfit or the unmotivated recruit. This morning it would be almost impossible to beat the time.
Across the sharp white field, a gas heater barely subsidised the massive cast iron radiator in the Physical Training Instructors ready room, where six instructors in tracksuit bottoms and distinctive white tee-shirts printed with crown and cross sabres, completed their morning paperwork and made ready for another long day screaming and encouraging young men to ‘wake up, switch on, go faster, longer, harder!’
The smell of fresh coffee jockeyed for domination with that of tobacco and floor polish, as notes about individual recruits were reviewed and discussed. This one needs watching, that one could be a leader, he’ll fail or he’ll find it easy... This particular morning, the safety of the state of the assault course 138 | P a g e was a leading topic. There were those who felt that the zero eight thirty exercise should be postponed until the afternoon. There was one who most definitely did not!
Yorkshire-born Sergeant PTI Harry Mason was stocky and powerful. His primary function was to weed out the unenthused and the easily injured. He saw this as a duty of regimental pride and protection of the training soldier.
Recently, there had been claims in the papers that standards and fitness amongst newly passed out recruits were falling. Anonymous reports, allegedly from high ranking officers, had suggested that battalion intakes were not ‘cutting the mustard’ and subsequently at an Army Physical Training Corps conference in Colchester, senior NCO’s in attendance had been severely reprimanded and reminded of the regimental motto ‘Mens sana in corpore sano’ A healthy mind in a healthy body.
Sgt Mason had wholly resented the inference that he or his training staff were partly to blame for soft-living, poorly disciplined young men and women, and was determined to make absolutely sure that ‘Nay wimpy-arsed little Fooker’ would get to sully the reputation of his regiment further. So, even though it was commonly felt that the RAOC basic fitness didn’t have to be equivalent to other high profile infantry regiments, in fact the physical training at Deepcut would now exceed expectation.
‘Assault course exercise will proceed as timetabled, gentlemen. Besides, Sgt Major Jones has provided added entertainment this morning! They two idiots from the recent mess brawl will be attempting the course ‘an-cooffed and aye for woon could use a fooking laugh.’
Actually, the Sgt need not have bothered to inform the instructors of this, as it was general knowledge throughout the camp staff, as was the fact that two strangely keen recruits had been nocturnally trying out the gym’s outdoor 139 | P a g e facilities that week... whilst holding hands. Nothing escaped the all-seeing eye of Sgt Major Jones, and it was he that had allowed the incident firstly to occur and then to continue unabated. Things were going exactly to plan.
At zero eight thirty, three platoons of red-faced recruits arrived at the start of the course with noses running and gasping clouds of steaming breath. The freezing air made them cough as it formed droplets in their protesting bronchial tubes. They lined up smartly, in ranks three deep, section behind section, with the obvious exception of two individuals who stood aside from the rest. These two were joined securely at the wrist.
Seemingly immune to the cold, PTI instructors facing opposite stood in shirts and shorts, eyeing up the day’s victims. Meanwhile, other training staff NCO’s gathered around a four-tonner designated as duty ambulance. Wearing warm combat jackets, they smoked, drank coffee from green flasks and mocked the PTI’s for their macho defiance of the inhospitable morning.
Each instructor had a wooden clipboard on which were the names of the unfortunate participants. Every name had a hand-written note beside it, reminding the instructors of earlier discussions. As the Sgt angrily shouted out safety instructions and rules, the recruits began to get cold. At last, the first three were called to the start line and their assigned instructor clicked a stop watch to start the run.
As others directly behind were ordered to run on the spot and prepare, the handcuffed pair were unsure of where to stand, and hovered at the line. They glanced from instructor to instructor for some clue as to how to proceed, but no clues or even returned glances were forthcoming, as the instructors ignored them. These two would have to wait until they were called and that was that. 140 | P a g e
As the queue shortened, returning participants arrived back at the start line and fell to the muddy ground in full view of the as yet untested ranks. Soaked to the skin and steaming, some threw up, with faces lined with the pain of extreme exertion. They shook their heads at each other as they searched the corners of their tortured lungs for oxygen. All waited with dread for the single word result that would see them either to the sanctity of hot coffee or the agony of the back of the queue and a retry. It would be ‘Pass’ or it would be ‘Fail’. 141 | P a g e
Chapter 27: Willis and Burrell Step Up to the Line (The Assault Course).
‘How did you feel when you saw people joining the back of the line?
You know what? I was so fucking annoyed at the whole stupid bullshit situation, I didn’t give a flyin’ anymore... Willis was squawking about me not slowing him up otherwise he would do this or he would do that... and it was ‘all your fault we’s in this shit anyway’.
It was obvious to me that we were the main event again and we could probably be expected to be on this roller-coaster for most of the morning. So what I was feeling was an almost comforting ‘fuck it’ and that’s all I have to say about that.
I began to lightly jog on the spot and stretch a bit. I reckoned our turn could come at any moment, as the PTI’s were enjoying their soppy little game. That little shit that gave me a hiding in the gym waved to get my attention and then pretended to be giving somebody a blow job, by making his cheek bulge with his tongue whilst holding an imaginary dick in his hand.
This did have the required effect of severely pissing me off.
I turned on Willis...
‘Listen you dipshit, do it as we practised, and don’t give me any surprises.’
I curled my free hand into his jacket, up by his throat, and brought my face close to his. I was getting angrier than a midget with a yo-yo and now I spoke directly with a fair amount of menace.
‘They’re fucking laughing at us Willis. I don’t care for that... I really don’t. Now how exactly do you think we should proceed, eh? Shall we bicker, or shall we show them how it’s done?’ 142 | P a g e
Willis freed his jacket from my grip and smiled a daft smile, and that threw me a bit.
‘Ok, Guy. Ain’t no need to get all cross wiv me, I’ll do wot I ‘ave to.’
The short-arse PTI Sergeant appeared just as some poor recruit was being laid on the ground with a suspected broken ankle; the lad’s yelling was causing discontentment in some and unsympathetic annoyance in others, and it was becoming evident to all those gathered that some fucker could get hurt playing this silly game.
‘Willis and Burrell step up to the line.’
All of a sudden it seemed to get crowded, as previously uninterested bodies now took notice and made their way over to witness the spectacle of two manacled idiots trying to achieve the impossible.
‘Three, two, one... go’
We were off, much too fast for me, and I almost fell as the raging bull that was Willis pounded the fifty yards to the first obstacle... a six foot log wall. As we lined up on the bastard, I told him: ‘Easy, mate, don’t get carried away.’
We had discovered that the best way to proceed was to use Willis’s strength and my agility, but this first barrier was easy, and by grabbing the top with our cuffed hands we were able to clear it swiftly, one going right and one going left. We had also learned to protect our wrists by synchronising our arm movements and locking our hands tightly together. This, of course, brought forth a multitude of wolf whistles and homophobic jeers from the crowd.
Next was the monkey bars, definitely harder but there was just enough room to go two abreast, grab first with un-cuffed hands and then ease the other up absolutely together. I shouted ‘left, right, left’ to co-ordinate arm movement and even though the freezing metal hurt our hands like hell we made good 143 | P a g e time. We had to swing hard out from the last bar to get onto the bank. Willis just managed to haul me back from the muddy ditch as I missed my footing on landing.
Then another wall. This one was a bastard tall nine or ten feet, it had been problematic when rehearsed. The plan here was for Willis to go up first, standing on my cupped hands and then to haul his entire body weight, almost one-handed, up to the point where he could swing his leg over the top. Now astride the wall, he would drag me by the arms up to the point where I could also swing my leg over. However, we got our timing wrong and Willis, struggling to regain balance, was forced to push down with his cuffed hand directly on the top of my head, damn near breaking my neck in the process. Dazed and on autopilot, I reached and grabbed the top and hung on like a limpet. Again, Willis’s strength came to our aid as he dragged me unceremoniously upward and over. We’d lost time and had to step it up a bit.
Next up was the rope netting climb. Again calling ‘left, right, left’, scaling it was tiring but straightforward, the problem here was getting down the other side without putting your leg through the massive gaps and getting entangled. Being a clumsy cart horse with two left legs, William Willis inevitably fell forward and, dragging me with him, pitched face first into the frozen sand pit under the net; I fortunately avoided the hard ground by falling on him. Some witnesses were later heard to speculate that this may well have been by design... which it was!!
Words of loving encouragement rained in from all sides: ‘Get up, you pair of knackers... get fucking moving.’ ‘God bless them,’ I thought. ‘They mean well.’
‘Four more and we’s ‘ome and dry, Guy,’ shouted Willis as he spat out frozen sand and blood, his thick red face covered in the white ground frost. We may well get home, but we certainly wouldn’t be dry. We were approaching the pipe. 144 | P a g e
The tunnel entrance loomed deep, cold and forbidding. I imagined that it was not unlike the sewer that had originally employed the pipe lengths used for the construction of the obstacle. There was a slight kink in the length, put in no doubt to hide the exit: you knew there had to be a way out but you weren’t allowed to see it.
There was only one way through this for two bodies forced to act as one, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant for either party. Willis crouched down on his knees at the entrance and, tucking my arm under his chest, I straddled his back. This was all about the big lad’s ability to hold his breath and crawl along submerged whilst carrying me - the air pocket in the tunnel was not big enough for both our thick heads.
‘Breathe deep, and remember - we’re not swimming in docklands, so no fucking stopping to catch jellied eels. When you’re ready, mate.’
Willis grunted, shouldered my weight, took a last gasp and dove into the thick filthy water.
I remember distinctly the razor-like shock of the cold soaking through my battle dress. It was alarming and then painful. I struggled to hold my head in the air pocket whilst desperately keeping my arm moving in time with Willis’s. We must have looked like a pair of green crabs fucking.
As the bitter cold bit deeper, I marvelled at the Londoner’s power. We moved around the kink in the tunnel and now I could clearly see the way out, but the totally immersed Willis couldn’t! With lungs bursting, and without knowing how long he had left to go, Willis panicked and desperately attempted to rise and breathe.
The first I knew about what was going on was when my head struck the roof of the pipe. Thank God for the helmet I was wearing for without it I would have been knocked out cold as fourteen stone of drowning recruit sought 145 | P a g e oxygen. As I said there just wasn’t room for both heads and I had to act quickly. Scraping down the side of the pipe I reached down into the water, located Willis’s drowning face and dragged it upward.
Now both on our sides, our mouths were only just clear of the water. We gasped and choked and wondered what to do next.
‘What’s your status, lads?’ came a genuinely concerned voice from the daylight. ‘Can you continue?’
I was barely able to breathe. I pulled Willis’s head further up and shouted at him: ‘William, mate, you all right?’
‘Give us a mo’ for fucksake, and tell that PTI bastard to fuck off and get the kettle on!’
‘Recruit Willis has expressed a desire to continue Sergeant,’ I said, as bravely as possible.
‘Get a fucking shift on then, Burrell. It’s getting chilly waiting for you love birds to hatch.’
I could see Willis estimating the distance to the exit and preparing to return into the gloom; then, without warning, he righted himself and set off once more. As we cleared the pipe, the ditch rose clear of the water. Bedraggled exhausted and frozen stiff, we climbed from the abyss. Willis could hardly stand but, with considerable effort and with me supporting him, we struggled toward the next obstacle, now hopelessly over time.
In contrast to the previous shitscape, this single-brick-wide wall was a blessing. The task was one of balance - to run up a slope on one side, along the top and then down another slope. I would face one way and Willis the opposite and we would proceed ‘crab-like’ across. It was slow progress and took us three attempts to clear the fucker. Each time we fell, the cuffs bit 146 | P a g e painfully into our wrists and jarred our arms. The PTI’s, having lost all concern for our wellbeing, were screaming blue murder. Now there were only two obstacles remaining: a rope ladder and another almost twenty foot climb up to the ‘Death Slide’.
Again, co-ordination was the way forward as, side by side, we scaled the bastard. Willis was spent and it was only because the Londoner was too thick to realise it that we made it to the top.
The final obstacle, the Death Slide - a wheeled handle slung on a descending cable - was the same as all the preceding apparatus in as much as it was designed for single occupancy. We had spoken of this moment in the days leading up to the exercise. We had debated as to whether the apparatus would take our combined weight, and how would we both hold on?
Reluctantly, we had come to the conclusion that it seemed the only solution to this dilemma required more close physical contact and we had decided -though not practised - to travel face to face with all four hands holding the bar; if the fucker broke then so be it. And it was thus that we prepared for the descent and unavoidable derision from the enthusiastic gathering below.
Wearily, we grasped the bar, me facing forward and Willis, who was afraid of heights, facing rearward.
Willis closed his eyes and muttered... ‘Do it you shithead, push off.’ So I pushed off and we began our terrifying descent.
The wheel screamed on the cable, protesting against the weight as the cable bowed alarmingly. Because of the bend, our journey came to an end sooner than planned and we hit the deck like two sacks of cow shit. This left me dangling from the handle with my wrist still restrained by the safety strap I’d cautiously employed seconds before. The other arm, of course, was firmly attached to the now motionless Willis. 147 | P a g e
‘Oops a daisy,’ grinned Sergeant Mason. ‘Is he all-reet?’
Willis had been winded and was lying in the foetal position going ‘errr errr.’ I could tell he was trying to say something poignant. Disengaging my hand from the slide, which wonderfully relieved the pressure on my cuffed wrist, I reached down and grabbed him under the arm.
‘William, we have to go, mate.’
The pride of Bow had finally found his lungs again... rising onto one knee he bellowed: ‘I fucking ‘ate jellied eels,‘ toward the bemused Sergeant, who looked at his stopwatch and shook his head.
We must have looked as if we’d just gone ten rounds in a cess pit with Mohammed Ali, and we finally crossed the finish line with a record-breaking time of twelve minutes, twenty-eight seconds - record-breaking because it was the first time anybody had traversed this course handcuffed. However, this naturally meant ‘fail’. As the Sergeant read our course time out loud, an audible groan drifted across the area. It appeared that we may have earned some local support. Either that or the crowd were reluctant to revisit the spectacle that was recruits Burrell and Willis now intimately embracing in false triumph.
When we heard the result, I looked at Willis and nodded, he returned my gesture and, without being told, we made to the back of the line. And there we stood, freezing, defiant and absolutely pathetic, a pair of wet fuckwits totally unaware that we had just made our beloved Sgt Major Jones and supporting staff look like they knew exactly what they were doing... which of course they bastard did.
Sgt Mason let us get within one rank of a re-run before he fucked us off to brew station for hot liquid relief. To be honest, although prepared to go 148 | P a g e again, we both nearly wept with joy. Then, as we drank sweet hot instant coffee, Jock Sgt Harry the Hernia rocked up in the RMP Land Rover and yelled out of the window: ‘Yous tay, froont and centre.’
Fuck. What now?
‘Ah need ma cuffs back, hands oot!’
The relief of losing those fucking handcuffs was indescribable. I didn’t even stop to wonder why we were being released, as the swelling on my poor tortured wrist oozed blood and throbbed like a rhino’s dick.
As the Jock RMP examined and loudly protested about the filthy state of his instruments of recruit torture, Willis muttered ‘Is that us off the fuckin’ ‘ook, Guy?’
‘I guess so,’ I replied, and indeed we were. That is to say we didn’t have to be cuffed together any more, but that wasn’t the end of it... not yet.
As he turned to restart the Drover, Harry the Hernia gestured once more toward us.
‘By th’way Gents... yous on platoon commander’s report!’
‘Whaaaaatt? Why, Sergeant?’
‘Helping yee-sel t’ tay fookin’ torches! with-oot the correct paperwork.’
Ah right... In my poor aching head several lights all came on at once. The sudden realisation that I really wasn’t as clever as I thought, and that this was a fight I just couldn’t win, was almost overwhelming. Somewhere in camp, I knew that a certain Sgt Major was reclining in a comfortable leather chair enjoying a stinking rollup and relishing the fact that he’d won again.
‘Oh for fucksake,’ said Willis. 149 | P a g e
‘Leave it, William,’ I said sharply. ‘At least it’s not a charge of theft, so it will only mean extra stag.’
Then, just to round off a perfect morning, we were helpfully informed by a beaming PTI that we would have to retake the assault course test as we had both failed miserably, only this time we would graciously be allowed to take it without being cuffed together.
I reckon that it was around now I decided that I would become a model recruit. 150 | P a g e
Chapter 28: The Next Fifteen Summers.
‘How was your relationship with William after that?’
Look, the fact is we just weren’t compatible. On one occasion, just to break a painful silence, Willis had confided to me that he’d also been beaten by his Dad and bullied at school. Surprisingly, his family were quite well off, with what’s commonly known as ‘new wealth’, which explained his ‘fink and fort’ accent, and his old man had spared no expense to send him to public school.
Subsequently, he had been singled out as an ‘oik’ and life had been a succession of beatings and humiliation and then, as he grew bigger and stronger, Willis had inevitably become a bully, too, striking out at anything he perceived as a potential threat. He also admitted that his Dad had plans for him to go to Sandhurst, but unfortunately, after failing pretty much all of his exams, he had been found to be ‘too fick!’ and wound up at Deepcut instead.
Although I had empathy, I had ghosts of my own to sort out, so I let the friendship go. We continued to acknowledge each other now and then, mutual respect and all that shit. He didn’t seem overly bothered and I lost track of him soon after passing out, I think he transferred out to something a little more suited to his skillset, whatever that was.
The last few weeks of training, I hardly saw the Sergeant Major. I had expected him to rock up and gloat, but he hadn’t bothered. After the assault course, I embraced the training as best I could, without appearing to kiss too much NCO arse. As the time for passing out grew nearer I actually found myself dreading the prospect of returning to my previous life.
‘Why, what scared you?’
Me... Scared? I guess so... it was just that I had grown used to knowing exactly what the day held, nothing was really complex in the Army and I 151 | P a g e relished us recruits all being ‘in the same boat’ as it were. Sure, the bullshit was piled higher than the parade ground flagstaff, but that only served to make the competition interesting.
‘Do you have any fond memories of basic training?’
For sure. There was the time Sergeant Rolfe decided to learn how to read sheet music. He lined up my platoon on the ranges and announced that we were to assist him in his practice. That day we were learning how to fire the 84mm anti-tank weapon. The ordnance for these buggers came packed in solid plastic cases and were cushioned by strips of heavy foam rubber. Rolfe had discovered that if you stick two of these together you had a perfect foot- long cosh, just hard enough to cause discomfort without concussion.
So then he goes along the line and assigns each one of us a note, doh, ray, me, etc., the plan being that he would strike us sharply on the head, upon which signal we should loudly emit the given note. We were now, apparently, a recruit xylophone, and Rolfe spent the next fifteen minutes or so attempting to play ’God save the Queen’ on us... yeah I know it sounds brutal but it was truly fucking hilarious.
By the way, that was the afternoon Lieutenant Phipps forgot his own fire orders and strolled over the protective bank during live firing without checking first as to what was occurring on the other side. Phipps managed to walk straight into the back blast from an 84mm. The rush of escaping exhaust from the discharged round travels from the weapon at the speed of sound, spreads out dangerously wide and carries some real nasty shit with it. It blew Phipps’ knee cap clean off and the last time I saw him he was in the back of a Drover as it ferried him away, screaming in agony, to A&E. Yeah, so I have fond memories of that day for sure.
‘How did you feel when you passed out?’ 152 | P a g e
When Sgt Rolfe gathered our platoon in the corridor of the accommodation, I was crapping myself. Two days previously, we had completed ‘Final Fling’, a thirty-mile forced march across the hills of Cumbria. This was make or break and you could still be ‘Back Squadded’ to the previous intake if you didn’t make it to the end in the allotted time. Five lads had royally fucked up and got lost and their fate was duly sealed. As for me, my section and I had worked well and completed well within the time.
My problem was that my training record was dire and, although Sgt Major Jones was not going to allow me to leave, I could most definitely be set back and I desperately wanted to pass out with my section. One by one our names and numbers were called and we marched in to the platoon commander’s office to receive the training team’s verdict. At the end of our eighteen weeks training there were about a third missing from the original intake, and judging by the solemn expressions of one or two of the lads leaving the office, this intake had still got some shrinking to do.
Dave Coulson got called before me and within minutes was passing back down the corridor toward his bed space with a great big silly Geordie grin on his face. Knowing what I know now, I wish to God the bastard had failed!
‘24557897. Burrell. G.’ OK, this is it... ‘Double in, stand to attention, doff cap.’
In the absence of our very own wounded hero Lieutenant Phipps, Sgt Major Jones was informing the recruits of their fate and now it was my turn.
‘Burrell. Guy, my last remaining knacker. Still here, are we?’
‘Yes, Sgt Major, we do appear to be.’
‘You are truly a cocky fucker, Burrell. Lt Phipps’ recommendation was that we hold onto your sorry arse for another eight weeks, so would you like to stay with us a further two months?’ 153 | P a g e
‘No Sgt Major, I don’t think I would.’
‘Well lucky for both of us Phipps is no longer serving, invalided out on full pension and telling anybody that will listen that he was W.I.A, and as I have the last say anyhow I want rid of you. Sign here.’
On the desk in front of me lay my acceptance to join the Battalion for further training. It was signed by Jones and next to where I was supposed to countersign were three boxes. Those boxes were there for the newly designated soldier to indicate how long he would like to participate in the British Army. Three years, nine years, fifteen years.
If I refused to sign, I was out there and then. This was the pivotal moment I had been waiting for, to show the Sgt Major that he hadn’t beaten the mighty Guy Burrell. I looked at him straight in the eye, hesitated, and then found myself ticking the box that would shape my life for the next fifteen summers.
I stood back to attention and waited for Jones’ reaction.
The Sgt Major smiled, satisfied, and again quoted Kipling...
‘Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them blackfaced crew, The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.’
‘24557897 Private Burrell. Cap on, about turn, double out.’ 154 | P a g e
PART THREE: ‘LESSONS ON HOW TO ACT IN PUBLIC’
A shadow moved and became a figure. It slid, crouched and wary, across the waste ground toward a brick block house three floors high with balconies overlooking the scrub and road to the south. The figure stumbled and weaved through the scrub and ditches of construction, now dropping to horizontal as beams from a hostile light danced and accused all that trespassed or would seek to trespass. Being found here was clearly not desirable.
Cursing the sight of his breath that threatened to reveal him as it reflected vividly in the cold February air and played hide and seek with the lights, the figure scanned the building and the balconies that would provide access. Some of the windows were lit, and shadows moved behind blinds. Using a small red filtered torch, he slowly unfolded a roughly sketched map that decided his route and destination. The window of the room that the map seemed to point to - and therefore the room that he sought - was unlit.
The hostile lights moved to the east of the grounds surrounding the building, so the figure made to his right and covered the last hundred yards swiftly, stopping to catch his breath and bearings at a small concrete enclosure containing refuse and parts of discarded machinery. Then it was all about the ten-foot barrier to the first balcony and the subsequent climb to the third floor. The figure crawled, elbow over elbow, and then stood under the balcony, hugging the wall as tightly as possible. He leant out as far as he dared, and scanned for the searchers who were evidently chasing their own shadows in woods far enough away to facilitate the next phase of the operation. Having located them, he crawled back and selected a large gas cylinder from the refuse. This would suffice…
Propping the cylinder at an angle against the wall, he took a short run and used it to propel him up and back so as to grab the railings of the balcony, 155 | P a g e after which is was a relatively straightforward exercise to swing his legs up, grip the base to gain a foothold ready to stand on the railings and repeat the exercise. Within minutes, and still undetected, he was at the window and door of the top balcony. From his webbing, he selected a flat spatula, slid back a latch and silently, with a fair amount of satisfaction, he entered the room.
Once in, he slid back the floor-length drapes and in the half-light found himself looking down on a bed with a single sleeping occupant who, due to the escape of one long ghostly leg from the quilt, was quite obviously female. The figure crept forward, shedding webbing and battledress as he did so. The occupant of the bed stirred but didn’t waken and now the escaping leg was accompanied by a very shapely posterior, positively beckoning the trespasser, who crouched to his knees and, forgetting any tactical concerns, bit it…
“So, what happened next?”
“All fucking hell let loose. I was in the wrong room…
What happened was, I knelt down, bit this arse and the owner kind of moaned so I thought she was into it, and so I bit it a tad harder. Then, all of a sudden, there was screaming and lots of female grooming stuff was being enthusiastically thrown at my face.
I was quite taken aback to be honest, and said something like ‘what the fuck Donna?’ and then clocked that it wasn’t Donna! As the realisation hit, I tried to apologise, but this imposter wasn’t having a fucking bar of it.
The bed was between me and what appeared to be the room’s exit, and I might have made the situation a little worse by falling on the poor woman as I tried desperately to gather my webbing and smock whilst simultaneously pulling my strides up. Thank fuck I didn’t take my boots off, 156 | P a g e but then I seldom do… Anyway, she went ape, and it was definitely time to withdraw, so I stumbled out into the corridor, which was now fairly well populated with concerned folk eager to use their weight of numbers to thwart any would-be assailant.
The noise of confusion, screaming and collective threats was worse than a tree full of burning monkeys. It invaded every nook of the blockhouse and I had a fleeting vision of thousands of scantily-clad nurses clambering to join the fray. Behind me, a very irate woman with a crimson hickey on her posterior was aiming all manner of shit at the back of my retreating head, so I had to push forward. It was like Northern Ireland all over again but far more dangerous and my survival rate was diminishing by the second. I had to think fast…
At the end of the corridor, there was a push bar exit with a sign over the top saying Fire Escape. ‘That’ll do for you, Burrell lad!’ I thought, and made toward it pointing at the exit and shouting: ‘There he goes - after him!’
Confused, the wannabe lynch mob to my front turned momentarily, making a Burrell-sized gap and allowing me to fuck off past in sparrow’s fart time. I hit the push bar exit shoulder first and at full pelt - frankly I overdid it! This became evident as gravity and inertia combined and I found myself bouncing off the safety rail of the fire escape and subsequently down the stairs on the exterior of the block house.
Landing on the flat of the second floor fire gantry, I attempted to rise, but my bastard combats were back at knee level and panic sent me down the next level on my back.
The mob were closing fast, hairy pink-slippered and hair-rollered, furiously pursuing yours truly, some of them struggling to contain their mammoth 157 | P a g e bouncing chests beneath loose towelling dressing gowns, faces contorted with hate, excitement and violent expectation.
In primeval desperation, I gained whatever balance I could, threw my webbing and smock over the railings and then pitched headlong after them into the refuse sacks in the concrete enclosure below. This bought me just enough time to dress appropriately for hasty flight. It also took the bandages off my ankle, so carefully and precisely dressed by the lovely Donna that very morning in the RAF hospital in Ely.
More shouting… this time coming from the direction of the bobbing lights to my left as I fled. The lynch mob had halted, confused, at the second floor gantry, although those that had joined the pursuit late massed at the third floor, urging further adventure. I felt a hundred pointing fingers betraying me to the distant bobbing lights and, despite the growing burning sensation in my ankle, went into ‘escape and evade’ mode and vectored sharp left into the darkness of the scrub.
From the relative safety of a construction ditch, I watched the pursuers track my retreat, hesitate momentarily and then make their decisions about my probable exit strategy. As these were obviously not military personnel, thank fuck, I opted to rotate back and skirt the west side of the blockhouse, and gradually work my way back to my transport which was well placed in a side street, out of view, adjacent to the hospital area. I would go to ground for a while and then make a wide exit to come in from the rear of the side street… all well and good, except that the adrenalin and thoughts of consequences had made me well horny. Just for a minute, I even considered hacking it back to the blockhouse and finding the elusive Donna. I mean, no fucker would be searching the block from which I had clearly fled!!
Yeah, OK, I realise that all this ‘might’ make me appear a tad errant by social standards, in a way that most decent folk may not quite understand, but in 158 | P a g e my defence I was a young soldier convalescing and the lovely nurse Donna had wonderful breasts and she was eager to share those breasts with me. This had played havoc with any thoughts of consequence attached to covert liaisons in forbidden places.
Furthermore, Donna had drawn the fucking map and had counted the ground floor as a level - her room was actually on the second floor, directly below the room that I had climbed into.
It is a defence, of sorts, but was not likely to hold any sway with the powers that be. Therefore, I elected to clear the area and live to fight another day.” 159 | P a g e
Chapter 29: Escape and Evade.
“Why were you in Ely?”
“Like I said, convalescing, or recovering if you prefer, from an injury I’d got in Ireland.
The Provos had taken to stuffing dead animals with explosives (I think the yanks call it road kill) and planting them on patrol routes. These corpses had always been dead a while and were very ripe, the plan being that no bugger would want to investigate them as they stank to high heaven. While checking out a suspicious abandoned vehicle in Antrim, I had fallen foul of one of these fuckers, a big old bloated badger it was, which blew me over and peppered my lower leg with bone splinters and putrid flesh. This was not good; although the actual wound was not too bad, I had to have emergency surgery to remove the splinters, and shitloads of antibiotics to combat infection. Thus I found myself in RAF Ely later that very day and subsequently in the expert hands of Irish nurse Donna, loyalist ex- Portadown resident, who took a bit of a shine to me. In the two weeks under her loving care, bed baths had been quite welcome and were totally different to the ones I had endured as a kid when I had my tonsils removed.
She was definitely ‘up for it’, even to the point of lending me her old Dad’s very own Mini Cooper to transport me from my billet at Ely to her night room in the nurses’ quarters at Addenbrookes in Cambridge, just down the road. The plan was hatched and the map drawn and, an hour before the allotted time, off I jolly well fucked… and then it all went tits up.
“So, I take it you got away… were there any consequences?”
“Nope… there were suspicions and rumours but no bastard had actually clocked my face that well in the half light and dark corridor. Nurse Donna 160 | P a g e worked it out, of course, but she wasn’t saying, even after what happened next.”
“And that was…? Could it get any worse?”
“Fuck yes, but I’ll come to that in a minute…
It just so happens that while I was in Ely I got a visit from an old comrade, a certain Cpl Sally Haywood of the Royal Corp of Transport. She had heard of my encounter with the badger bomb and, as she was on a skill at arms cadre at Depot Queens Bassingbourn, which is about thirty or so clicks south of Ely, she decided to come pay me a visit.
This was most welcome. I was pleased to see her and we got talking about NI and me saving her cute little khaki arse that time… well I talked about it, she just kind of nodded a bit.
During the conversation I reminded her that she owed me a dinner - at least - and so, reluctantly, she wrote down her temporary address, which was just out of barracks near Bassingbourn village, gave me a little peck on the face, and departed.
So there I was, sitting in nurse Donna’s Dad’s Mini Cooper, horny and hurting and the night was still young. I reached into my pocket, pulled Haywood’s address out and thought: ‘fuck it… why not?’” 161 | P a g e
Chapter 30: ‘Burrell... What????’
Just after midnight, control at Parkside Police station Cambridge received a communication from emergency services that there was a suspected violent rapist at large in the grounds of Addenbrooke’s Hospital. A nurse had been attacked by an intruder who, upon confrontation by several brave souls, had smashed his way out and departed at haste into the grounds of the hospital around the nurses’ housing block. By ten past midnight, two cars and a long wheelbase van containing dogs had hurtled out into the February night, sirens and lights clearing paths through the city traffic, waking a hundred sleeping dogs and probably twice that number of small infants.
A fair-sized crowd of worried spectators, ex-intruder combatants and hospital security personnel were gathered around the entrance to the nurses’ block to welcome the Police vehicles, and the occupants were duly mobbed as they arrived and alighted.
It took the deployed force of seven nearly twenty minutes to subdue the mob, begin their enquiries and take statements. It took another ten to settle down the dogs in the back of the van so that a search could ensue. The animals had gone into attack mode when the mob had rushed to the vehicles and, if let out immediately, they would have torn into all gathered with indiscriminate vigour.
Eventually, some of the assailant’s blood had been discovered on the wall of the refuse enclosure and the dogs, having picked up the scent, were allowed to begin the hunt. The path of the fleeing (would-be) rapist surprised the searchers as it took a most surprising route. The expression ‘cheeky bastard’ was used more than once as the dogs led them all back and wide of the block house, right around the hospital ring road and into an estate, finishing 162 | P a g e suddenly where it was surmised that an escape vehicle must have been parked.
The trail had now gone cold, neighbours in houses adjacent to the last known position of the quarry were woken and questioned. As the residents were used to strange vehicles being parked on their roads (hospital staff often parked out of the hospital grounds to avoid parking charges), nobody had borne witness to the arrival or flight of the suspect’s vehicle and so the searchers returned to the nurse’s quarter to finish taking statements. It was a long night for what seemed to be very little return.
It was all to change very suddenly though. At 19:05 the next day, two smartly- suited police officers returned to the nurses’ quarter, enquiring as to the whereabouts of a certain nurse Donna Sarah McCullough. She wasn’t under any suspicion of being involved in the previous night’s attack, so they weren’t there to question her: they were to be the bearers of bad news and they also wanted to know the whereabouts of her father.
“It’s not my job to judge you, Guy. I’m here to listen and to help you sort your head out!”
“We both fucking know what you’re here to do and why I’m having to talk to you, so cut the flannel and I’ll finish the bastard story!!
To be honest, I don’t see what the fuck any of this bollocks has to do with the inner workings of my head, although it does make me chuckle and shudder at the same time remembering what happened next.
It was about twenty past twelve when I reached the Mini Cooper. As I said, my ankle was pumping claret and throbbing like one of those big old lab 163 | P a g e valves you see in the old Frankenstein films. I must have caught the Posterior Tibial Artery quite significantly; the surgeons at Ely had fucked around down there digging about for quite a while so this was bad but not surprising. I had to quell the bleeding, so I tied what was left of the bandage as tight as I could bear just above the wound and then sat for a while staring at Haywood’s reluctantly scribbled address, contemplating my next action.
My Dad often used to say that the stupidity of youth clouds all reason, and he was right. However, I was still in two minds when the sound of closing police sirens cutting through the cold night air galvanised me into action. I started the Cooper and pointed it toward the junction of the A10 and Long Road, which was just down from the Hospital. At this junction, I could have turned right to go through Cambridge town and off to Ely, or left toward the market town of Royston and then Bassingbourn where Haywood was supposedly impatiently waiting… then as I got to the junction proper, I saw a terrifying blue flashing circus about a mile away coming from Cambridge, I figured that they would probably be turning into Long Road as these blue lights must be en route to Addenbrooks because of the clusterfuck that had been my evening so far.
I wasn’t in the mood for any more ‘escape and evade’ so I turned left… Haywood honey, brace yourself - you’ve pulled.
The drive to Bassingbourn is a bit of a blur, could have been the loss of blood, or it could have been the half bottle of Southern Comfort, bought earlier for exercise ‘Irish Nurse close quarter manoeuvre facilitation’, but now consumed to dampen another kind of throbbing. Either way, by the time I located the quarters at Bassingbourn and alighted the Cooper, I could hardly stand. 164 | P a g e
I thought to myself ‘Take your time, you knacker’ as I scanned the row of semi-detached accommodations, Army personnel for the use of - I really didn’t want to repeat earlier fuck-ups. Then, when I was as sure as I could be, I staggered up to a particular front door and rung the dirty plastic bell. I didn’t expect it to function, as it looked as if it had been used to herald the onset of Operation Market Garden forty-odd years previously, but the Army do sometimes procure serviceable kit and the bell rang out as commanded and then some…
Within seconds, Haywood was at the door. Blinking in the harsh hall light she swung it furiously open, and as I was propped up against it trying desperately to stop the fucking ringing as the bell button was stuck fast, I pitched forward and landed, bewildered, at her feet.
‘Burrell…. What????’
‘Hi Sall, was passing and so I thought I’d drop in!!’
Now, Haywood had seen some shit in her time, but I doubt if she’d ever seen a recumbent and clearly inebriated soldier covered in blood and scratches, gawping stupidly up at her and clutching an empty bottle of Southern Comfort, offering her a swig and attempting an apologetic smile…
Through the blur, I could see that she was not amused - no shit, Sherlock!!! But I still felt pretty confident and I was right to be. Haywood, probably fearing more for her reputation on camp more than my survival, reached over to a shoe rack, selected a number one boot and with one hard strike swiftly silenced the bell.
‘Oops… my head next?’ I wondered, and she must have been tempted, but no… reaching over me she grabbed my webbing belt and dragged me clear of the door, slamming it as soon as my injured ankle was clear. 165 | P a g e
‘Can you stand, you dipshit?’
‘For you, I could fucking tango, sweetnips.’
‘Get the fuck up and follow me - and will you please stop bleeding on my mat!’
Painfully, I rose and followed her upstairs; we entered the white utility tile- clad bathroom where she motioned me toward the toilet. ‘Sit’ she said… so I sat, silly grin on my face.
‘Your ankle, I presume?’
She had presumed most correctly… but I was wishing to fuck it wasn’t mine.
‘How…? No actually, don’t bother answering that. Good plan drinking the Southern, Burrell, might as well have a sore head to go with the ankle.’
Her words were hard but her body looked really soft under the kimono she was wearing. You can probably guess the state I was in under my blood- stained khakis!! As she moved from sink to cupboard and from cupboard to urgent ankle repairs, the split in the kimono opened and closed, revealing, hiding, beckoning. She saw the expression on my face and traced my gaze, too late I attempted a diversionary tactic. ‘Nice tiles…’
‘It isn’t my tiles you’re dribbling over, Burrell.’ She bent down and grabbed at my ankle, bending forward now until her face was close to mine, I took a deep breath and she smelt fucking wicked. Haywood squeezed my poor old ankle with that hidden power that comes from a woman annoyed by a man. It got my attention… 166 | P a g e
‘Listen to me, Guy. I don’t know why you’re here and what you’re expecting.’ She paused but didn’t slacken her grip, in fact I think it got tighter. Haywood was searching for words and she was digging fucking deep.
‘I know… I know that I owe you… I still have bad dreams… I can still feel the cold; I remember the stench of that bastard’s breath and the fear of being all alone... I know that if it hadn’t been for you Guy! Look… I know that I owe you!’
Again a pause, and again the tightening of the grip.
‘Please, Guy, don’t ask me to… not like this… not this way.’
Just there in front of me, her face… and only inches below… her chest covered by the thinnest of material, heaved with short gasps, fucking beautiful… vulnerable.
I saw the tear even before she felt it leave her eye and realised right there that I could have her, if I chose… and then she would hate me… and then I would hate me, too.
With considerable effort and resolve and maybe a little shame, I feigned surprise and protested: ‘What…? Firstly, don’t kid yourself, sweetnips - yeah you owe right enough, but I was only doing my job! When you rocked up at Ely you promised me dinner, and I’m hungry. And secondly, can you please let go of my bastard ankle!!’
Haywood’s mouth tightened to a thin red line. With her free hand, she wiped her cheek and prodded her index finger hard into my forehead. She released my ankle and carefully stood, making sure all her woman goods remained tactical so as not to enflame me further. She failed miserably. I was already regretting my own damn conscience as now the best I could hope for was some food. 167 | P a g e
‘Fuck you, Burrell… steak and chips? At this time of the day you can take it or leave it.’
I nodded my approval and tried not to sigh too loudly.
She cleared up and gathered a blood-stained towel into a wicker basket. As I followed her downstairs to the kitchen she was noticeably back to her hard- faced self, and complained bitterly about having a zero six thirty start, driving the point home by educating me about my useless and childish character. ‘Bit harsh!’ I thought.
It was only fifteen or so minutes later that my promised dinner arrived, as she pushed the plate toward me and said sarcastically ‘enjoy’ I weakened…
‘Haywood….’
‘What now?’
‘I suppose a blow job’s out of the question?’”
168 | P a g e
Chapter 31: Code Red Mini.
At zero seven thirty, the outside phone in the guard house at Wimbish Barracks began to ring furiously. The duty desk clerk had just started his day and was unaccustomed to early phone calls. Somewhat annoyed, he leisurely placed his coffee back on his mess tray and answered the call. ‘Wimbish Barracks Guard House, Corp Whiting, Sir.’
The nature of the call soon changed his attitude. It was a call from the military police at Bassingbourn Barracks and it was destined for 33 Engineer Regiment (EOD) based at the camp. Code red, suspect vehicle on site, possible terrorist attack.
The gist of the call was this: a soldier from Bassingbourn MT was returning from night duty and had noticed a battered Mini Cooper with Irish plates parked near the personnel accommodations outside the camp. On closer inspection, the soldier had spotted that the driver’s area floor and seat were covered in blood and had doubled back to the guard house to report. Worse still, the Irish registration was traced to a certain William McCullough, who was active in the UDF. Rapid enquiries revealed that the vehicle was on an MI6 watch list and had been filed as coming into the UK some weeks previously. So, within minutes, the Engineers were speeding, complete with armed escort, to investigate, and Bassingbourn Barracks including the accommodation block was closed down and under Bikini State Red.
All personnel from the houses were evacuated, some cursing, others obviously disturbed and upset. Sand bags were placed in front of windows, and a command post established within sight of the suspect vehicle. As there was no obvious control wire for detonation, the Engineers from 33 Reg’ set up jamming and prepared to send in a wheelbarrow to place charges and then to execute a controlled explosion. Because of the proximity to the 169 | P a g e houses and camp there was to be no procrastination and consequently the suspect Mini Cooper, along with several unprotected windows, was rendered totally unserviceable.
Sally Haywood could only wait with growing dread, in the bleak admin office of the motor transport building, for news - she being the only person on camp that actually guessed exactly what was happening. It was well after seven in the evening before anybody was allowed back to the housing block, and when Haywood finally forced her way through her battered front door she was most relieved to discover her guest had departed. The following days were spent terrified that some connection would be made between the incident and her, a connection that would absolutely end her Army career in the worst possible way. During this fraught period she resolved never to entertain, or even speak to a certain RAOC operative ever again.
“How did you get back to Ely?”
“I yomped cross country to a little backwater station called Meldreth on the Cambridge line, I had to borrow some cash from Haywood, but the train took me straight back.
The hardest thing about it all was clambering out of the back window of Haywood’s accom’ and fucking off across the fields at the back without being spotted.
I was pretty lucky, again. When Sally went to work she had left strict instructions for me to be long gone by the end of her duty. Strangely, my hostess had declined the previous night’s offer of my company in her own soft warm bivvy, so, having spent the night on a standard housing Army 170 | P a g e settee with only a couple of itchy grey blankets to keep me warm, I was feeling pretty rough, Also, as predicted, every fucking thing hurt like a bitch.
As she left for work, Sally had gladly given me a tenner for petrol, the willingness of this financial sacrifice added to the suspicion that she wanted me gone. As it turned out, though, I wouldn’t be needing petrol. I was just about ready to depart when I got the urge to visit the heads for a constitutional morning bowel movement. It was this call of nature that actually saved my bacon because, just as I was completing the paper work, some mad bastard was pounding on the front door and shouting through the letterbox: ‘Is there anybody there?’
Curious and slightly alarmed, I peeked out of the bedroom window and spotted all the paraphernalia and activity that could only mean that some kind of bomb threat was going down outside. For a moment I couldn’t work out in my head what the reason was for this… why here and why now? And then like a naked fall into an icy river it hit me… Donna’s old man’s Mini, with Irish plates… parked outside an Army camp… Oh Jesus Fuck!!!
I knew the drill very well, probably would even know some of the 33 Eng’ guys arriving in force. The guys would clear every building on site and then fuck the Mini off in grand style.
I had to get out – now - before they started checking the rears of the houses, so, pausing only to select a small ‘trophy’ from Haywood’s top drawer, off I went, my third escape and evade in the last twelve hours.
Anyway, I made it back but had to avoid the MO until one of the nurses redressed my wounds. Fortunately, Nurse Donna was absent for some time, allegedly due to stress caused by an attack on her accommodation and the subsequent theft of her car, which had mistakenly been blown to fuck outside a nearby barracks. I was discharged soon after all this and never got 171 | P a g e to say sorry to Donna which is probably why I’ve still got a set of genitals in correct and serviceable order. I felt really bad about her Dad’s car and as I had saved up some back pay whilst on R and R, I left a bundle of twenties in her locker wrapped up in a page from the local paper showing the remains of the mini after the 33rd had clocked off.
As for Sally Haywood… she doesn’t return my calls so I haven’t returned her knickers. 172 | P a g e
Chapter 32: Decisive Retribution.
The black S-Class Mercedes swept like a steady breeze through the security gates, which opened as if in awe at its demand to enter. The tyres sang out in a low smooth whisper which then changed to angry crackle as the machine found the gravel of the drive. Sometimes, in some places, the arrival of this vehicle caused fear, dread, anger… but this was where the Beast slept, and where arrogance allowed its guard to slip.
Wars have many needs and many will rise to meet those needs. Perhaps the most important requirement - which will totally outstrip the urge to mend - will be the need to destroy!
And some people can make the best of the worst; these individuals thrive while others suffer, and thus remain unrepentant even as the world burns. They justify and shift blame and stand nourished in the blood of their fellows, heads clear and ready to exploit.
Milo Petrović was of this stamp.
At the beginning, Serbian forces were well-equipped, but time and International condemnation had ravaged supply lines. Petrović had risen to the challenge and had invested personal wealth in the enterprise. Now he was the main supplier of anti-personnel weapons to the whole Serbian Army.
Once sown, mines are indiscriminate instruments of death, which wait masterless, hidden but ever alert. A testament to five thousand years of the science of human conflict, they know nothing of truces and agreements, they remain on duty and will not be easily dissuaded from their task. 173 | P a g e
The Mercedes was a sign that business was good. The house it served was a clearer indication that demand was steady, and the factories that carried the name of Petrović worked tirelessly to feed his empire.
Inside the house, two obese children and one trophy wife waited for the Beast to return, the mother of the children having been banished from the empire many months previously. As the car arrived, two delighted Dobermans bounded from the garden and mobbed the rear passenger windows, and two flat-faced security guards in matching Armani suits were quick to shoo them back so that the Beast could alight.
Petrović was tired and irritable. He required expensive Vodka and a swim in the pool and when in this mood was definitely not to be obstructed; the sidearm he always carried had often been employed when its owner was crossed.
It was far better to clear his path and, where possible, ease tensions, than to have the wrath of the Beast upon you.
The occupants of the house were seldom allowed to use this front entrance. It was to be kept spotless for when the important generals and industrialists arrived, and this was not an acceptable area for anything to be out of place…
Therefore it was with a sinking heart that one of the guards noticed a small pile of disturbed gravel directly in line with the large front door and, almost inevitably, Petrović spotted it too.
Growling “Fucking dogs!” he motioned to the guard to clear back the gravel in preparation for what was going to be an unpleasant clear-up duty. The guard cursed as he made his way toward the indiscretion. 174 | P a g e
Petrović paused momentarily and considered shooting one of the animals, but resisted the urge. After all, it was that fucking groundsman that let the dogs roam this part of the grounds. It wasn’t the dog’s fault, it was his. The unfortunate man was to be beaten - not shot, as he was good with the lawns and the Beast did not have the time to train somebody new.
The Guard pulled a large knife from a hidden scabbard strapped to his ankle, bent down and dug into the gravel, trying to avoid getting bad things on the blade. Petrović was just about to walk through, the door having been already opened for him by the other guard.
When they heard the sharp crack that sent the small mound of gravel flying, and in the last half second that remained of their lives, all three knew exactly what had just happened. 175 | P a g e
Chapter 33: Stay Inside, Punch His Lights Out’.
‘OK, Guy… let’s talk about Kosovo.’
“It was interesting; I didn’t dislike the posting as the Eastern European women are bloody steaming hot and they like to please. It had its moments and the weather’s shite, but overall…
‘What was your duty at that time?’
To clear land mines, anti-personnel mines, booby traps and unexploded ordnance (UXOs). We were attached to the N.A.T.O peace-keeping force. That was a joke, the Serbs took very little notice of us, just the occasional rousing shout of ‘Bog te jebo’ as we patrolled or drove by some of them… I later found out it means ‘May God fuck you!’ Sometimes, when we were feeling sociable, we’d shout back ‘Like I fucked your Sister?’ It was always nice to bond with the locals.
‘Tell me about the teenage Albanian girl.’
That’s in there as well, is it? In your great big fat file-o-fucks?
OK, well… I was getting a beating when I got the call to mobilise so I was quite pleased to oblige. We had quite a bit of time on our hands at Base and they had a pretty good Gym, so I had embraced the noble art of Karate and discovered I was actually quite good at it, in my own bullish way. Some of the other lads and I were being trained by a middle-aged Royal Anglian Sergeant, a wiry, tough old bastard who could punch or kick a hole in a wall; he trained us as a way of keeping himself in the loop and oh, how he ‘enjoyed’ his hobby.
Anyway, we had to share the Gym facilities with some U.S. Air Force personnel, part of Clinton’s finest and they favoured the Korean Martial Art 176 | P a g e
Tae-Kwon-Do. It’s effective and all that, but uses high kicks and flashy stuff that was designed to knock people off of horses. We Brits are far too down in the ditches for all that crap… and we mocked them mercilessly.
It was during one particularly spirited mocking, i.e. me standing on one leg like the Karate Kid making a high-pitched ‘WoooAhhhh’ noise, that one of the Yank M.As decided enough was enough, and I received a formal challenge.
Not wanting to appear reluctant in front of the other lads, I cheerfully accepted, ‘in the spirit of international comradeship’. There was to be a contest, me against their champion next day in the ring. I wasn’t overly happy about this but couldn’t back down. I consulted the old Anglian for advice and found him delighted to assist.
‘No problem Burrell, you’re just right for this’
I was encouraged…
‘Just remember that people do things in threes, dummy… dummy… strike! As soon as you get the first two dummies out of the way, you wait till he takes a sharp breath, ready to throw the actual technique and steam in. You’ll probably catch a shin to the face but it’ll be better than catching the foot which will be travelling at full speed. Make it count and stay inside, punch his lights out.’
I was encouraged again…
‘Thank you Sergeant. You think I can beat him easy, then?’
‘I didn’t say that, Burrell, but as you are representing me you had better, because if you don’t I’ll kick the fuck out of you also!!” 177 | P a g e
So, I spent a little time sparring with the lads and trying to put into practice what the Sergeant had told me. I remembered the fight I’d had with Willis in basic many years ago when another old bugger had given me advice… ‘on the night he’ll try to make an impression’ Sgt Major Jones had counselled, ‘let him knock you about at the start, you can take it and he’ll burn himself out.’ I’d listened and it had worked a treat.
Next day, I lined up against this lanky colonial as directed and tried to push the anxiety of expected humiliation and pain to the back of my mind. He was fucking lanky, over six foot, and it seemed to me as I watched him warm up that he could reach my face with those kicks as easy as turning off an annoying light … but the Sergeant was right: he was doing things in threes, and not only that he was revealing his best technique at the same time. The big lad favoured the turning-round kick off his right leg.
As I climbed in the ring, massive cheers… not for me though, as half of fucking U.S.A.F. had turned up to see me get my candy ass thrashed. My lads, about thirty in number and one worried-looking Sensei Sergeant were notably reserved. I was no longer encouraged….
Some full screw P.T.I. acting as referee called us to centre ring. We weren’t wearing gloves, so we shook hands and then instantly I found myself flying almost horizontally, back to my corner, as an American size 12 foot on the end of a spinning kick contacted me square on the chest.
Massive cheering… Some people were shaking their heads… At least one spectator was suggesting that I should rise from the canvas and stop showing off! 178 | P a g e
The Yank was hanging back, waiting for me to regain my footing. I could see that an onslaught was due, so I waited until the ref got between us and asked after my willingness to continue. I was considerably winded, so my response must have sounded like an eighty-year-old smoker eating a pillow… I did rise, however, and kept the ref between us until I was able to form some kind of defensive stance.
Bang… again, same technique, not as clean but still hard enough to up-arse me.
Cheers, screams… jubilation, more shaking of heads. But then I realised that it would be just as my Instructor had predicted. Although he hadn’t thrown dummy techniques because, clearly, they had landed, I knew exactly what he would do next and was ready.
The lanky bastard, now extremely confident of an easy victory, started to showboat, dancing around the ring, probably reluctant to finish the fight before his fans had their money’s worth. I was also not ready for my Martial Arts debut to end, and watched his shoulders intently as he closed. Sure enough, on the third approach he drew a breath ready to throw the kick a tenth of a second later. I beat him to it and closed the five foot between us in plenty of time to spoil the kick. As the kick bounced off my right hip, ending safely behind me, I turned sideways on and brought my elbow in a short arc around into his nose which crunched satisfyingly under the impact.
Down he went… silence, surprised gasps… a mammoth ‘YESSSSS!!’ from the Anglian.
As they stemmed the blood from his nose, the Yank now knew he was in for a fight, and they make them resilient in the colonies - he wasn’t up for surrender. The ref made a quick inspection, more as a gesture than anything 179 | P a g e official, and called us back to the ring. There would be caution now from both of us, as we had felt each other’s power.
I edged forward, trying to close inside of the effectiveness of the kicks. He backed off, slipped sideways, and threw a turning kick into my ribs. I doubled half over and responded with a low kick to his thigh and a straight punch to his chest, neither of which made notable impact on him. Riding the punch and using strong arms, he pushed me back into kicking range and sent an axe kick toward my head. This is a straight-legged descending attack… the clue’s in the title and it felt just like you would expect an axe to feel… I went down again.
I was on my knees, spitting blood and trying to unscramble my brain functions. I glanced over to the Sergeant and was astounded to see him waving his arms frantically trying to stop the carnage. I wasn’t having a bean of it and lunged up head-first planting my forehead square on his temple. It took three of the gathering to pull us apart, and then I discovered why the Anglian was halting the bout. ‘SGT Burrell, get your EOD kit and suit up. We’ve got a shout from N.A.T.O. Operations Division South. There’s been a major incident in a village called Račak, your services are required.’
I left the American cursing and frustrated, his last words to me were, predictably, ‘This ain’t over, you fucking Limey shit head,’ and I guessed he was probably right. I was sore but not too badly injured and was soon en route to the village. It took us just over three hours and it was quite dark when we arrived.
The girl was about thirteen, and at first glance I truly doubted she was going to celebrate her fourteenth. 180 | P a g e
Chapter 34: FMed 8.
Deep in the English countryside at Kineton in Warwickshire, the RAOC trainees learnt to dismantle bombs in replica Irish scenarios, including a farm complex, a housing estate, a pub, a hotel, a railway station and a bus depot. The streets have pillar boxes and lampposts and the training was said to be most realistic: it had to be.
In the main block of offices, just across from the main barracks, somewhere in its vast 2500 acres, the office of Army Psychologist Karen Murphy RAMC was stark and functional. This was an area born of a tidy mind, it followed order and anything that wasn’t square and of the correct hue stood out like an iceberg on a flat cold sea. Today, for the umpteenth time, Murphy thumbed back a brown leather flap that concealed and protected a watch face, and noted the time. Her annoyance grew, as a particularly notable iceberg was still not present and correct, being nearly ten minutes late. She often felt as if little progress had been made in this case, and had altered her approach to suit on more than one occasion.
Dr Karen Murphy was a direct descendant of the school of psychoanalytic psychotherapy as directed by Dr Thomas Freeman (RAMC. Major. Ret), and had studied his teaching at Holywell Hospital, Co. Antrim, where Freeman had his training clinic. Murphy was good at her profession and was now very much in demand for the recognition and treatment of ‘Post Traumatic Stress Disorder’ but the subject of today’s annoyance did not tick the boxes at all. She knew the ways of the British Soldier, having been attached to many a front line unit in order to build her research. It wasn’t easy to thwart the sharp mind and eagle eye of Dr Murphy and soon most subjects got their various barriers broken down and had let her in. 181 | P a g e
But not this one. He messed with her, fought back and took more than he gave.
Silently cursing, Dr Murphy looked once more at the time, and randomly skimmed notes and letters from the red D ring file, although she was very familiar with its contents. Printed on the cover, just below ‘Strictly for the Attention of Authorised Medical Personnel Only’ was ‘Burrell G. Sergeant. RAOC’. The very name challenged and mocked her, but spurred her to greater efforts… she would break him because she had to - much depended on it.
She contemplated phoning the Sergeant’s Mess, which was just across the parade square but, just like the other times, she hesitated, as Burrell was already walking a thin line with the powers that be. This was the reason he had come into her professional life in the first place.
It was clear to everybody that had dealt with this misfit that he had courage, was resourceful and promoted confidence in people, but this was when he was working. Equally, people knew that, off-duty and in his private life, he was danger personified and his out-of-hours activities and disasters were legendary. There was even a rumour that he had been involved in the execution of an arms dealer in Bosnia, and going through his file she had been initially astonished to find statements, and even blurred photographs of a Burrell-like figure, clearly up to no good, in a place he certainly should not have been. As with many other noted incidents, however, the evidence - although compelling - was not strong enough to be considered proof beyond doubt, and this had always stayed the hand of military retribution. In the British Army, everything about you will eventually arrive in a file, facts and rumours alike, and so it was inevitable that somebody high up had decided enough was too much and something had to done with this Magistrate’s Soldier… but what? 182 | P a g e
It was fortunate that Burrell had many supporters. If it had been up to some significantly important opinionated dissenters, the Sergeant would have been out on his ear. It was argued that in order to crouch over, fiddle with and make-safe copious amounts of unfriendly ordnance, a soldier had to be half mad. It was the same as expecting a heavyweight world champion boxer to turn the other cheek in a bar fight… being slightly mental was a requisite of this hazardous occupation and so the C.O. had initiated an ‘FMed 8’, which is an army paperwork request for an opinion as to the psychological well-being of a soldier.
The FMed 8 was a catch-all tactic that was often misused, and in this case it was to dictate Burrell’s future. If the Sergeant was found to have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in any degree, it could be argued that he would be ‘unfit for active service due to flashbacks or similar’ which would explain and justify his un-soldier-like after-hours behaviour, and he could be retired by a grateful Army, quietly, with dignity intact and without fuss.
Dr Murphy therefore knew that she held Burrell’s career in the palm of her hand. It was a dilemma, as she wasn’t prepared to burden the ranks further with a deeply troubled soul, but felt strongly that if the structure and discipline was removed from his life he could go completely off the rails. It was entirely her decision, based on her experience and, more so, her professional conscience - personal feelings had to be discarded.
When Sergeant Guy Burrell had been handed the order to make a regular appointment with the camp Psych, he had been more curious than anything else. At first, he had thought it mandatory, as he had requested consideration for advancement to Colour Sergeant - what else could it be? He was well aware that the same Army personnel had reported seeing the FMed 8 used to get rid of staff who were suspected of homosexual or lesbian tendencies, and 183 | P a g e that certainly didn’t apply to him! Shame about the lesbians, he thought… live and let live, guys!
However, still unsure why he had been issued the order, he had remained pragmatic about this development as, after all, the Camp Psych was a bit of a fox, and it would get him off of training EOD sprogs for a while. Coffee and a chat, maybe a cuddle from Dr Murphy if he were lucky… he could do that.
This was to be his fifth or sixth visit. He had prided himself that he had been fashionably late for every appointment so far, and the good doctor’s threats and admonishments had only hardened his resolve to maintain control. Also, he reckoned that he had been very clever during the interviews. He was aware now that something important was being decided somewhere and so he hadn’t really held back, and had only avoided straight answers to questions of a really personal nature. Sure, she had disguised such questions, but he was wise to that tactic, as he was also wise to her craftily rephrasing the same questions later in order to trap him. It was all a game and he quite enjoyed it, actually looked forwards to the tussle, to be able to brag about his exploits and conquests. As for the deep meaning shit… No chance, sweetnips, he’d got her number.
Murphy always kept the door to her office slightly ajar and, as her office was at the end of a long lino-clad corridor, this gave her a good strategic view of the general comings and goings of this particular block. Well within her sight was the main stairwell and she habitually glanced up from whatever she was doing when she heard footfalls, ascending or descending. And now at last there came the unmistakable sound of Ammo boots on tortured risers. The footsteps were laboured and obviously came from a wearer who had little concept of lateness.
This was SGT Burrell en route for certain. Nobody else wore Ammo boots any more, as they had been phased out in the fifties. However, Burrell preferred 184 | P a g e them to the current issue of ‘Boot, Combat High’ or ‘Boot, Cardboard Horrible’ as the troops used to call them. Although very slippery on tarmac and stair due to the prominent metal studs on the soles, they did make a very satisfying clack-clack, and sparked when worn… to Murphy this was just another reason to be annoyed with the soldier who was finally approaching her office nonchalantly - quite frankly without suitable urgency.
At the door, Burrell hesitated, then snapped to attention.
‘Burrell Gee reporting for appointment, Ma’am.’
Murphy tightened her jaw and searched hard for resolve. She was almost at boiling point, as this idiot had constantly tested her with this kind of shit… but there was something else that she could not shake off, something completely perplexing to the ordered and logical mind of Dr Karen Murphy. It was not anger that was making her heart beat a fair bit faster than normal, and it wasn’t dislike for the man that produced that fluttering sensation in her gut when she saw him. 185 | P a g e
Chapter 35: “You’ll Never Play the Violin Again”.
“You’re late AGAIN,” she said, softly and with as much control as she could muster.
“I’m very busy, Ma’am. I have to teach young men and women how to kill other young men and women!”
“Yes, well I’m busy, too, Sergeant, having to deal with idiots who can’t read clocks!! Step in and sit down.”
Burrell obeyed, but first poured himself a glass of water from the filter next to the sink. Then, sitting bolt upright in the leather chair sited at the end of Murphy’s desk, he cheekily offered her a sip and feigned surprise when she refused.
“What shall we talk about today Ma’am? I’ve a great story about the Brigadier’s wife if you like. I’ve been saving it until I got to know you and trust you, as I will need to trust that you won’t bubble me to the Brigadier!!”
The previous night, Murphy had thought long and hard about today’s appointment. It was time to change strategy.
“No thank you, Guy. We should save that one a little longer I think. You say that you know why you’re here… so why are you here? And please don’t say because you were ordered.”
Burrell had just taken breath to begin the anticipated ‘smart ass’ reply, but stopped as it had now become superfluous.
“I’m being shafted, Ma’am, by HQ!”
“And why do you think that you’re being shafted, Sergeant?” 186 | P a g e
“Because I once showered in the Officer’s Mess heads and the Adjutant must have reconnoitred my willy. Obviously it’s frowned upon in the OM if senior NCO’s are better equipped than officers… I was doomed the second I dropped skids and presented!”
Trying her hardest not to form a picture of the Sergeant in the shower, Murphy slowly shook her head.
“Actually, it’s due in some part to that kind of attitude and disrespectful clowning that has become a trade mark of your service record - plus, if you must know, some extremely worrying reports and rumours about your behaviour outside of work.”
Burrell turned down the corners of his mouth so as to look sheepish and shrugged his shoulders. Murphy, not impressed by this bravado, continued.
“You may not want to face it, Guy, but you are being examined by me in order to determine your future in this organisation. I have the power to terminate your service with us or to recommend that you undertake some on-going behavioural therapy. It’s becoming evident to me as our meetings continue that my recommendation may favour the former path and I’m curious as to what you think would work best for you. You see, your flannel and laddish attempts at charm are wasted on me.”
Even as she was saying this she knew that both parties present severely doubted that this was actually true…
“I am a professional and as such immune to your ‘Bullshit stories’ as you have put it more than once. I listen because I have to, and I assess, and we both know that you use your ‘Bullshit stories’ as a smoke screen hoping to steer me away from the real Burrell.” 187 | P a g e
Burrell shifted in his seat, placed his elbows on the desk so as to look Murphy straight in the eye. She met his gaze and, for a moment, in uncomfortable silence, they mentally toyed with the chess pieces of confrontational conversation, both trying to gain advantage. Burrell broke first.
“What the fuck do you want me to say, then? I’ve told you about my mate Coulson getting fucking blown to bollox… shit happens and always will.” He lifted from his elbows and, half standing, drew closer. She was momentarily taken aback by his aggression.
“I have other stories for sure… have I told you about Corporal John Anderson getting his shoulder blown apart by a sniper near Alma Street off the Falls Road? He was the section joker, Anderson, and was watching my back as I disarmed a PIRA career-stopper in a bin by a bus stop. His job was to take a bullet for me and that’s exactly what he fucking did… Yes, Ma’am. I was bent double and it was raining as usual, the light was bad and my visor kept misting up, which annoyed the fuck out of me. I was telling Anderson to get out of my light when suddenly he span round with this real strange look on his face… I told him ‘stop fucking about’ because I didn’t realise he’d been tagged, not having heard the report from the sniper’s weapon. He just dropped to his knees, shaking his head, and then I saw the pool of blood forming at his feet. You’re a doctor, Ma’am; but do you know what a 7.62 round traveling at 2,000 feet per second carrying 1,900 pounds of kinetic energy does to a shoulder?”
Murphy knew full well, but shook her head. Burrell was on a roll and this could be productive.
“Well, I’ll tell you, because I fucking know this shit inside out… the round misbehaves, tumbles, and can have an unpredictable exit trajectory. In Anderson’s case it entered in the crease of his armpit and upper chest, cut clean through the pectoral muscle and smashed into his humerus. That would 188 | P a g e have been bad enough, but the bastard vectored down along the inside of the bone and exited at his elbow, which promptly disintegrated. No wonder the bloke had a strange expression.”
Burrell’s face was as stone, inches from hers. He took a breath, cocked his head to one side and, mimicking the voice of Sean Connery, continued.
“Ander-shun… I’m afraid you’ll never play the violin… again!”
Burrell sat back down and resumed his elbow on table position; Murphy had momentarily got in, the bitch… he had to seize back the initiative.
“Yes, Guy, I have that incident noted in your file. You carried him, still under heavy sniper fire, over two hundred yards to cover, somehow stopped the bleeding and probably saved his life. Why did you refuse to acknowledge your ‘Mentioned in Despatches’ award? That really didn’t go down too well, did it?”
“I didn’t acknowledge it because it wasn’t a big deal, Ma’am, not really!”
“Seems like a pretty big deal to me, Sergeant.”
Burrell pretended to covertly look over his shoulder, as if checking that somebody would overhear.
“No, it wasn’t. Because….” He lowered his voice and smiled. “He actually couldn’t play the violin before he was shot.”
Dr Karen Murphy let out an involuntary giggle; it was short and immediately stopped as she regained control.
Burrell was now slouched back in the leather chair, a half smile still on his face. He was back in the game and this was getting to be fun. 189 | P a g e
Chapter 36: Sandbags and Gladrags.
Designated as a tripwire-activated bounding anti-personnel fragmentation mine, the ‘PROM’ series is an effective and difficult weapon to make safe. They do their work, as most mines do, by physical touch or attached tripwire, and are most effective against patrols or groups. When activated, a primary charge makes them leap from their hiding place into the air, whereupon a secondary main charge explodes the device, killing or maiming with shards of indiscriminate fragmentation.
Based on a German concept of anti-personnel devices, they had been around since the Second World War, and Bomb Disposal Operatives from all over the globe had grown deservedly wary of them. The standard process when they were discovered was to destroy them where they lay. Disarming them was thought overly risky and, as they were often sown in chains in which one would trigger another, this was pretty much the way they were dealt with.
Sometimes, however, that choice is not an option.
Paragraph 98a of testimonial evidence from the ‘International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia’, 22 May 1999, which the Prosecutor of the Tribunal against Slobodan Milosevic recited:
“On or about 15 January 1999, in the early morning hours, the village of Račak was attacked by forces of the Serbian Police. After shelling by VJ [Yugoslav Army] units, the Serbians entered the village and began conducting house-to-house searches. Villagers, who attempted to flee from the Serb police, were shot throughout the village. A group of approximately 25 men attempted to hide in a building, but were discovered by the Serb police. They were beaten and then were removed to a nearby hill, where the policemen shot and killed them. Altogether, the forces of the FRY and Serbia killed approximately 45 Kosovo Albanians in and around Račak.” 190 | P a g e
Before the war, the village was home to nearly 2000 souls, but now most had departed, as guerrillas from the Kosovo Liberation Army (The KLA) were active in the area, using the village as a base to stage hit-and-run attacks on Serb forces. However, by the end of 1998, approximately 350 had returned, and a few of the houses had smoke rising from their chimneys once again.
It had always been hard to thrash out a living in this region of Kosovo. The Albanian farmers were a close-knit community, each supported their neighbour, and the ground was productive, providing good grazing for cattle, but winters in the hills could be severe and stores of hay and firewood had to be a major concern for the community. Therefore, more scared of famine than fighting, the 350 came back to protect their winter stores and, even though most of their tractors had been taken by the KLA, they were determined to prepare the hard ground for the spring. It was essential for their survival, after all… the war couldn’t last forever!
As the teenage daughter of one of the returning families broke thick January ice from the spout of an ancient pump and began to harvest the day’s water, shots echoed across the cold hills and the screaming began. Terrified, she fled back up the hill path toward her father’s farmhouse, but she halted as a line of blue and black uniformed men, some with balaclavas, descended out of the morning mists. They were also nearing the farmhouse and suddenly came under fire from somewhere on her far right.
As one of the men fell and rolled lifeless on the stony path, others crouched and returned fire furiously and indiscriminately in the direction of the village. The girl’s house, where her parents and two elder brothers slept, was directly in the way of the fury and she was horrified as it began to shatter and disintegrate. 191 | P a g e
Somehow evading the hail of death, she desperately made once again toward the house, screaming for her parents as she ran. She had almost reached what was left of it when she was grabbed from the side and thrown to the ground. Striking her elbows on the stones, she realised that she was still carrying the 25lt metal jerry cans used for fetching the water; she held them close to her body as they were precious and she wasn’t going to let them be stolen as most of her Father’s other possessions had been, even though they were handicapping her ability to rise and flee.
The soldier was pressed hard against a wall; he raised and aimed his weapon at her head. “Fucking Albanian gypsy pig, no-one is interested in your fucking water.”
She was still trying to stand. He shifted his aim and, as if to hammer home the point, discharged the remainder of his magazine into the rusting containers, which offered no defence against the onslaught. She felt the impacts coming toward her body and, just before the magazine gave out, was struck hard in her thigh and side.
It was just like being kicked by one of her father’s cows that time in the field, when the bitch had been in a foul mood and she had surprised it. Initially, the result felt more or less the same, and she fell back down, barely able to catch her breath… but then it got worse, much worse.
The girl lay next to the ruined cans. She reached over and sobbed to see them. What would she tell her father? He would surely be angry with her and say that she should have protected them better. As shock began taking over from the pain, she realised that she was bleeding profusely and she couldn’t move her right leg. Her thoughts of flight turned to those of resignation, all around her, the shots and the screams meant that many others were going to be feeling the same. Now the soldier had been joined by another and they 192 | P a g e regarded her with cold curiosity, as two hungry cats might regard an injured sparrow.
“What are you going to do now, gypsy girl? You’re all shot and fucked up. See what you get when you harbour terrorists… see what you fucking get?”
As he swapped his magazine for a full one, she clawed at one of the jerry cans and used it to sit up. Ice water leaked from the ragged holes in the can and ran down her arm, soaking her woollen overcoat and diluting the spilled blood; the cold made her wounds burn relentlessly, and each breath became more painful than the last.
She turned her face toward her home and the wind caught her long black hair, making it dance around her swollen eyes, flicking at tears and momentarily obscuring her view. The house was quiet… dead, as was everything she had ever known. Her parents, being devout Muslims, had prepared her for the loss of a loved one; she raised her head to the sun and the East, she closed her eyes preparing to join them and recited from memory.
“I bear witness that there is no god but Allah, may Allah have mercy upon us all. From Him we come and to Him we all return.”
Momentarily, the fear and desolation left her, the negligible warmth that came from the morning sun combined with and strengthened her faith, this was the will of Allah… and so she braced herself and waited.
But the soldier did not fire; the other had grabbed her under the arm and began to drag her into cover by the wall. “Not yet, little Albanian piglet, you shall be martyred right enough, but when I fucking say so.” 193 | P a g e
Extreme fear leads to an unrelenting hatred of the cause of that fear. Men act vengefully without thought of conscience, as if humanity had never existed and would be absent from deed without recourse. This was total war; the Serbian Policemen had lost four of their own in a recent attack by the Kosovo Liberation Army in the neighbouring municipality of Suva Reka. The K.L.A. had also been involved in kidnapping and arson and had established their base at a power station near the girl’s village. The four dead policemen had families, friends, colleagues, and it was revenge that drove the events of the morning, and hatred that was blind to the suffering of this helpless Albanian Muslim child.
The soldiers held the girl in one of the ruined houses until the shooting stopped, then, as their comrades marched twenty five unfortunate captives from the village into the hills, they dragged her out and propped her against the remains of the fence that marked the front garden of the place where her parents and brothers lay. They had roughly treated her wounds, stopped the bleeding and forced morphine into her trembling frame. They didn’t want her to die until she had served the purpose they had in mind for her.
Finding one of her traditional costumes from the ruins of the farmhouse they redressed her, dug a steel pipe into the ground and placed a bounding anti- personnel fragmentation mine and a grenade inside. They then looped a length of thin wire sewn through the skin in the small of the girl’s back and attached the other end to the device. Lastly, they pulled free the safety collar to arm the trap and then they followed the others into the hills. The two soldiers had worked rapidly following a well-practised plan; they wouldn’t be around to see the result. They felt nothing more for the lost souls they’d left behind or those in the hills they were about to execute. 194 | P a g e
Another fucking gang of Albanian terrorists despatched, nothing more or less, nobody could be considered an innocent, and if any survived it was because they were to bear witness that this was revenge without compromise. 195 | P a g e
Chapter 37: Limey Creepers.
‘What was the girl’s name?’
“Micha something… scratchafannyitch… whatever, definitely Micha something or other!
‘How did you feel when you first saw her?’
I thought it was nice of her to dress up for me… she was wearing some pretty fine kit for a booby trap, hair was a bit of a mess, but hey! The N.A.T.O lads didn’t seem to be impressed, though. Their CO just kept on mumbling about ‘the whole situation being hopeless’, and it was a ‘waste of everybody’s time bringing in the Limey Creepers’.
‘Creepers?’
Oh yeah… a term of endearment from the yanks for bomb disposal because we used to crawl around a lot like babies on all fours. My, how we laughed when we first heard that. Anyway, he wasn’t up for saving the girl as his own ‘creepers’ had binned it as being too risky.
When we arrived, me and another E.O.D. lad called Tom ‘Spikey’ Johnson grabbed a brew and called for a sit-rep. A huge black son of the southern States handed us the written appraisal of the events, which had hurriedly been knocked up before the press got on site. It included a brief on the girl’s predicament from the other disposal guys, who were now working somewhere in the centre of the village, clearing and checking so that bodies could be removed and investigations could begin.
As I remember it, the brief was fucking brief… ’18:45 Village North East. Girl of approx’ 12/13 years old discovered on 196 | P a g e ground, hands and legs bound. Probable wire to PROM-1 or 2 beneath or in close proximity. Prospects of survival of subject are minimal, have advised containment and make safe fifty yard perimeter. Teams A and B to make safe in all main areas and reassess.’
Advised containment meant that sandbags would be stacked all around the girl, and the area to fifty yards would be red-taped, then they would wait for her to expire and trigger the trap.
I read it aloud to Spikey who said ‘Fuck it… this is another Ljubenic!’ which was an incident where an Austrian disposal guy had lost a leg and an arm dealing with a PROM series trap.
Fortunately, he had been able to describe the construction of the trap and the details were circulated around E.O.D groups P.D.Q. This had been discussed in depth throughout Kosovo, and the general consensus aligned with tonight’s appraisal.
I needed some more information, so I sought out the medic and enquired as to the girl’s general condition.
‘Not good, but treatable if we can shift her to our M.A.S.H. We can see at least two gunshot wounds which have rudimentary dressings and she has had morphine, we think.’
I asked him if she was talking…
‘Oh she’s talking all right, won’t let anybody touch her… screamed like a scalded cat when we tried to have a look at her wounds, the Padre thinks it’s a Muslim thing!’ 197 | P a g e
With the assistance of a couple of infantry lads, Spikey set up a blast wall and surveyed the girl with binoculars, neither of us wanted to leave her to die without at least having a go at making safe.
Spikey lit up a Rothmans and offered me one. ‘OK, Guy, let’s get suited up and have a gander. You skirt high and I’ll walk in from here, meet you in the middle.’
‘Gonna need a terp,’ I said. ‘Unless you can speak Albanian or Serbian.’
As we suited up, checking each other for gaps as we went, an interpreter was collared and installed behind the blast wall with a radio, which he was given strict instructions not to use until signalled; it was just a precaution as we didn’t want any unfriendly frequencies fucking up our evening. Long shot, maybe, but I prefer my ass attached to my torso and wasn’t taking chances, Ha… other than the obvious chance you take making safe nasty ordnance!
After the obligatory helmet head bash for luck, we set off cautiously to task. As it was getting dark now and fucking cold, too, we used our red filtered torches to scan the ground around the girl, filtered so as not to make ourselves too much of a tempting target for any mortar teams that may be hiding in the hills. The ground here was stark, without any growth, and all seemed clear, no trips or signs of recently dug earth. We kind of expected this as the Serbs, being confident in the effectiveness of their trap, wouldn’t have bothered.
I was concerned as we reached the girl that the sight of two padded-to-fuck khaki figures tippy-toeing toward her would freak her out and she would set the trap off. I needn’t have worried as she was pretty compos mentis and just stared at us with an unnerving steadiness, as if all this bollox was our fault. 198 | P a g e
‘Toon-jah-tie-ta,’ I said. ‘Err… See- yay-nee,’ which was supposed to be Hello, how are you?
This had immediate impact and caused a tsunami of Albanian right back at me. I could tell that quite a lot of it was not polite.
‘Christ, Guy, pack it in mate, you’ve just insulted her Granny or something!’ said Spikey, who had dropped to the deck and was now yelling through protective arms and visor: ‘OK, signal the terp.’
As I was making the universal palms raised up sign for calming the fuck down, the interpreter’s voice crackled through the radio: ‘What do you want to ask her?’ I placed the radio close to her face and told him that I wanted to know if she spoke any English - she didn’t - and what her name was, ‘Micha, her name is Micha and you’re not to touch her’ said the terp.
Spikey had recovered his composure and spoke into his handset. ‘Tell her that we are going to have to take a look under her which will mean scraping away some earth next to her side. Tell her to please not make any more large movements because it makes me very cross.’
Micha agreed, but watched even more intently as we began slowly excavating the earth as Spikey had said. It wasn’t long before we located the wire sewn into her back and the cylinder just inches below that where the wire disappeared into the darkness. I could just make out the top of the bomb therein and a marking on the fuse which said ‘Petrović SH.p.k’
‘Fucking absolute heartless bastards!’ exclaimed Spikey ‘They’ve sewn the trip to her back so we can’t undo it. Can we cut it?’ I remembered the details the Austrian had supplied and it wasn’t good. 199 | P a g e
‘No Spikey, we can’t. There are weights tied to the trip so if we cut it or detach it, the weights will fall on the detonation spikes and that will be that! We’re going to have to retire to the blast wall and regroup, mate.’
There was more. The thing that had caught out the Austrian lad was another little bit of nastiness hidden under the PROM. He’d thought that the way forward was to cut the trip and tie it off high so the weights remained above the spikes. All seemed well until he rolled the trap victim off the device. You see, his weight was holding an outer tube down onto a grenade. As soon as the weight was removed, the grenade, an old type with a gripping lever, armed and exploded, setting off the PROM. It was lucky for him that the majority of both blasts were absorbed by the unfortunate victim. So, in summary, we could neither detach nor cut that wire, and this would be one of the reasons why other operatives were shying away.
Back at the blast wall, I sat down with pen and paper. Spikey had returned to cover Micha with a thick blanket, as she was in danger of going hypothermic. I sketched out the problem and the obstacles and stared at the paper. I needed to think out of the box and that required caffeine, so I summoned the black Corporal and he supplied a large mug of steaming N.A.T.O issue coffee.
To be honest, I was not coming up with a solution and then out of the blue the Corporal said: ‘Can you save her, Sergeant? Or shall we just dig a hole next to her ready?’
It was a thoughtless remark and I was about to tear him off a strip, but then it hit me like a fucking electric shock to the testicles. ‘That’s exactly what we’re going to do, Corporal - you ignorant fucker.’ The lad was a bit taken aback…
‘Really?’ 200 | P a g e
I was momentarily ecstatic and grabbed my pen and paper. Spikey, I’ve got it. We’ll dig a fucking hole right alongside her and using some of that wriggly tin from the QM’s truck, rig a trap door over the hole, then we’ll pile sandbags on top of the tin and wedge it open, right? The plan then is that we tie some rope to Micha and pull her into the hole. We’ll have to pull hard and really quickly but she’ll roll over and knock the wedge away and fall into the hole and be protected from the shrapnel… because she’ll be in the fucking hole… genius!
It was fucking pure genius, but insane, never been attempted as far as I knew and Spikey was not that keen… he pointed out that there was a distinct flaw in the plan. Annoyingly he was right. I needed one last very important detail that only one man could provide. 201 | P a g e
Chapter 38: ‘Lowlife British Punk?’
When I was looking down the tube under Micha, I had seen the maker’s name – Petrović, the scummy arms dealer, currently based somewhere near Zagreb. Initially angered by the inhumanity of the man stamping his name on these things in order to drum up more sales, I was now glad he had, as there was a serial number also. This would be a clue to the information I sought. You see, there was a distinct difference between a PROM-1 and a PROM-2, and that was the height of the so-called bounce!
When triggered, the bomb fires the body of the mine clear of the ground and then the main charge blows, fucking everybody over with red hot shrapnel. This is why the Serbs used them and had dressed the girl in her national costume… the idea being that her countrymen would rock up and attempt to move her to safety. Bang! A few more dead Albanians!
Spikey pointed out that the PROM- 2 had a larger launching charge and would therefore bounce higher and this would give us a split second more before the main detonation, the PROM-1 would probably give us hardly any time. Now, we are talking about a tenth of a second, but that would mean the difference between success and a letter home to Mum.
Onward and forward, I found the N.A.T.O temporary HQ and communications, persuaded the CO there that this was a workable idea and, as the scene was now attracting the world’s media circus, he agreed to put me through to my unit, as they had means of getting this Petrović bastard on the blower. And whoopi-doo! much faster than I expected I found myself talking to the man himself, who no doubt thought that this was to be a business enquiry. He was noticeably disappointed and then angry when I put him in the picture. 202 | P a g e
The conversation went something like this.
Petrović: ‘So, let me get this straight, you allegedly have one of my mines strapped to a Muslim female, again I say allegedly, strapped by a Serbian and you want me to help you disarm it, is that what you’re saying to me?
Me: ‘No Sir,’ struggling like bejesus to be polite to the cunt… ‘I would just like to know what the PROM type is from the serial number I gave you!’
Petrović: ‘Ah! So you think I am going to leave my house and my dinner to travel to my factory, search through hundreds of files just to save some fucking Muslim whore and make you look like a hero?’
This was not going well, and I was starting to lose my rag… I maintained my cool, which was important.
‘I don’t mean to put you out Mr Petrović, it would just mean far less paperwork for us, and I’m sure your N.A.T.O customers will be grateful.’
This was a bluff. It was suspected by many that his so-called wares were purchased by all sides in this conflict and I needed a lever. I shouldn’t have gone there…
The reply was hissed down the phone and left me in no doubt that this bastard was not going to help.
Petrović: ‘You arrogant lowlife British punk, you are nothing… how dare you threaten me… I will have you hunted down for this insult and I will piss on your bones. Do you hear me, lowlife British punk?’
I heard him. The line went dead and for a second I gave in to my colourful temperament by smashing the handset several times onto the 203 | P a g e
Communication bod’s desk. This prompted two burly N.A.T.O grunts to burst in, pointing their automatics directly at my face. The CO saved my bacon.
‘Stand down, it’s OK,’ he shouted to the grunts. ‘Sergeant Burrell, you’re dismissed!’
Ashamed and burning with fury, I headed back to the blast wall and found Spikey waiting.
I told him: ‘It’s a PROM type two, mate!’
And I lied… but we needed to do something urgently, so I made the call and it probably wouldn’t really matter in the whole scheme of things what series the evil fucker was.
As we prepared to go back and dig a large hole, the phone conversation was burning my very heart out and so there, in that moment, I resolved that I would get to that bastard Petrović somehow and I’d show him what a lowlife British punk could be capable of when pushed. But first I was going to save this girl… and I wasn’t going to die trying; I was going to save her.
When we reached Micha, she did seem a little more pleased to see us, even got a half smile when I pretended to walk like a robot. Spikey called me an idiot and suggested I ‘concentrate on the task ahead’, and that task would prove to be a very long one indeed. You see, we couldn’t use picks to break up the hard frosty earth, as the impact shock waves might set the mine off, so we were forced to scrape away with a couple of regular army issue spades. Fortunately, though ground was hard it was dry and so didn’t need shoring up and then it got quite sandy as we went lower.
We dug the hole about half a metre away from Micha, which was about as close as we dare go and not too far away to execute the plan successfully. It 204 | P a g e had to be long enough for me to lie in, at least three feet deep and three foot wide so we could yank her into the hole and then roll on top of her, using the EOD suit to protect her from any stray shrapnel.
Chapter 39: ‘Not as Bad as it Looks’
‘Did you tell Micha what was going on, and did she understand the plan?’
The interpreter explained to her what we planned to do. Yes, there was much discussion between them, but Micha seemed to accept that this was the only way forward, and at the end of the conversation, she looked up at me and said ‘Meester Boo-ral… OK!’
So, having received the official affirmation, we dug and dug and wished we were fucking milkmen or taxi drivers instead of a pair of twat smokers, wheezing like a pair of knackered boilers, dressed in sweat-soaked heavy canvas and ceramic-lined blast suits.
I don’t mind admitting that I have never liked manual work, and this was as manual as it gets. It took us a little over three fucking hours to dig that hole. I blamed that Spikey bloke, who I thought was being a wee bit anal, insisting on square corners and a flat bottom.
I asked him if it was because the world’s press were now lining the cordoned- off area and were scrutinising our every movement through binoculars and long range lenses. He replied that his wife’s mother might see this shit back in Blighty and finally think him worthy of shagging her daughter. Apart from the fact that our heads and necks were obscured with helmet, visor and high collar so that our own mothers wouldn’t be able to recognise us, I still didn’t think this reason enough for artistic hole construction, and finally decided enough was enough and the hole, as far as I was concerned, was serviceable and therefore ready. 205 | P a g e
So all that was left to do was to line the wall of the hole closest to Micha with a few layers of wriggly tin, in case the grenade blew that side in on us, and to prop up a temporary lid that would take the blast from the mine. As luck would have it, one of the other N.A.T.O ‘creepers’ had found a flat piece of sheet steel in the remains of a blacksmith’s down in the village. It didn’t seem to be overly heavy even after we covered the top with sandbags and propped it open with a picket. We needed now to test it… but how?
Well, because Spikey was a shrimp and around two stone lighter than me I suggested he lay momentarily next to Micha in the half meter gap, then on ‘three’ roll like a madman toward the hole, striking the prop and closing the lid as he entered, whereupon I would then roll onto him, proving the idea workable.
Spikey removed his EOD suit but kept his helmet on and duly obliged. ‘Ready 3-2-1…go!’ Result... disaster.
The prop moved all right, but Spikey didn’t have the momentum and didn’t clear the lip in time, the lid fell on him and trapped him, half covered but with his arse hanging out exposed. The world’s press were now being treated to the sight of us two attempting to lift the lid to extricate ourselves from the hole and, dressed I as was, this action proved embarrassingly difficult to do.
‘I hope your mother-in-law didn’t see that half-arsed effort, you knob head,’ I remonstrated helpfully. Spikey just gave me a middle finger salute; he had blood running down the side of his face.
So now Micha is shaking her head, the interpreter’s relaying a ‘what the fuck’ enquiry from N.A.T.O H.Q. because the whole farcical incident had been shown on live TV. Spikey has some pretty deep abrasions on the side of his 206 | P a g e face where his visor had been crushed by the steel lid, and I am snagged up on the fucking prop.
Actually, it wasn’t as bad as it first appeared.
Chapter 40: 'I am unclean’
On the evening of the massacre of Racak, the world’s press gathered in the village and were shown a number of dead Albanians whose average age was 43; the youngest was around 15. The ‘outrage’ that was reported by western media portrayed the Serbia and Yugoslavian forces in a very bad light and very little mention was made of the preceding gun battle and the fact that KLA had killed many of the Serbians as they approached the village.
In justifying the bombing of Yugoslavia, President Clinton would tell the world's press: "We should remember what happened in the village of Racak.”
Tony Blair, in his speech to Parliament to justify the bombing, referred to “the massacre at Racak.”
German Foreign Minister Joschka Fischer, approving German military participation abroad for the first time since World War Two, stated: "Racak was the turning point for me."
After the bodies had been photographed and the area declared safe, fresh drama was unfolding to the north-east of the village and the press were quick to pick up the story.
Two British E.O.D operatives were battling to save an Albanian teenager, and their struggles were being shown live, as they happened. Many interested parties were watching and waiting, planning responses, formulating arguments for future political use. 207 | P a g e
It was debatable, by some, as to which outcome was preferable; if the operatives saved the girl, British forces working with N.A.T.O would look really good, especially as the American bomb disposal crew that had arrived first had not seemed to be willing to take on the situation. However, if the British failed and the girl died, sympathy for any ensuing N.A.T.O action would be assured and the American’s unwillingness would be justified.
The truth was that the American E.O.D had been presented with far more pressing objectives in the village that day and simply did not have the skilled manpower on the ground, at that time, to spend saving the life of one individual. It was a tactical decision that probably saved other lives, but individual heroism against all odds sells, and the media weren’t going to let this story be diluted by simple facts.
‘Is says in your file that you were ordered to stand down, but you obviously didn’t.’
“Yeah, that was the rumour… Orders apparently came from the old man himself, Major-General John Drewienkiewicz, who was slightly concerned after seeing our little test on fucking CNN. I didn’t get the order, of course, as we had left our comms in the transport.
‘The report says otherwise, but please continue. How did you handle the failure of the test?’
Well… I figured it out. It was obvious that Spikey just could not roll fast enough from a standing start, couldn’t get enough inertia to fuck the prop out of the way. Shame we had to find that out in front of the cameras. 208 | P a g e
It took us a few minutes to regain our composure and regroup. Micha was crying softly and had also begun to groan, as the morphine was wearing off. Spikey had also noticed her makeshift bandages were soaked with fresh blood. I knelt by her side and told the terp to explain that what had just happened was just a test, and that we would execute the plan successfully when it mattered.
I could tell she was fading, and sent Spikey back to get some advice from the medic, who said she probably shouldn’t have any more morphine, as that could put her into shock or something. She was going to need plasma, though - and soon - so he suggested that somebody draw some blood to get it typed so a transfusion be set up as soon as we - or if we - saved her. As the medic couldn’t be allowed to approach the danger area, it was up to one of us, and as Spikey was with the medic at that time, he got the job and was duly instructed in the required process.
While all this shit was happening, I got the terp to ask Micha why we couldn’t touch her. She had stopped crying, but started again when I raised the subject. I told her that it didn’t matter why, but we were going to have to attach some rope or something to her and that might mean having to touch her in some way; also taking some blood meant finding a vein.
As the terp finished translating, Micha looked at me and then away. Then, without warning, her hands went to her side, as if to stand. She was within centimetres of pulling the trip chord and I had to reach over and push her smartly back down. Micha, now ignoring the pain, screamed at me and spat at my face, cursing and snarling. Considering the toll that her ordeal must have taken on her body, she was still very strong, and I was really struggling to subdue her. 209 | P a g e
Meanwhile, the radio had been thrown clear of us, and Spikey was running over to grab it. I shouted to him: ‘Get down flat, she’s trying to fucking well trigger the mine,’ but he kept coming, grabbed the radio up and threw himself onto her legs.
Eventually, exhausted, Micha became still. Spikey said: ‘What the fuck was that all about? We’re going to have to knock her out, Burrell,’ but I told him no, something wasn’t right about what just happened. I was sure she hadn’t lay there for fucking hours just to give in now. I told the terp to ask her again why we couldn’t touch her, and gently placed the radio to her lips.
Eyes half-closed, soaked with tears, she looked up at me and whispered into the radio.
‘Më lini të qetë mos më prek. Unë jam i papastër.’
I’ve memorised what she said, asked the terp to write it down for me and I memorised it.
‘Why?’
Because I should have realised, worked it fucking out… she’d been there for hours, mostly on her own and now, with the whole fucked-up world watching on, her shame was so great she had chosen to die than be found out… like I said, she had been there for hours, right… unable to move… get it?.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t… what she said, what did it mean?’
Micha had said ‘Leave me alone, do not touch me… I am unclean!’
The anger that I felt, the absolute fury at the world, the media, the war and the injustice of this whole fucked-up situation. The girl was nothing, valueless in the great scheme of things, not even a pawn in some political game; she 210 | P a g e was less even than that. Nobody would care, nor would they grieve for this girl who was so ashamed of soiling herself she would rather fucking die.
I couldn’t show her my anger, and all I could say was a pathetic ‘don’t worry, the medics will clean you and get you some clean clothes’. When Spikey started to take her blood, she had no fight left to give and was unconscious before he’d finished. I stood and took the vial back to the medic and then he and the terp made off somewhere to get the blood typed.
So, as I found myself alone and out of sight, I slumped behind the blast wall, lit up a Rothman’s and bawled my bastard eyes out.
Well? What do you think of that then, eh? The great unwashed hard man Burrell G. cried like a fucking wimp! Bet that fucker is not in your file… are you happy now, Ma’am?
‘People cry, Sergeant, even the strongest. It’s a natural release and perhaps you should have done it more often! You see, men think it a weakness, that somehow it undermines their ability to fight and they repress. Very unhealthy - in fact, I would say crying was a symptom of a normal mind, whereas an inability to weep is a sign of psychopathy, and that wouldn’t look good in my report.’
Well, bully for you and your psycho shit. All I know is I felt wretched and just wanted to fuck off and kick the shit out of something… or someone. Anyway… that’s what happened.
After a minute or two, I saw the terp picking his way back. My nose was running like a fucking tap and I couldn’t find anything to wipe it with, my eyes were bound to be all red and swollen… so I pulled the visor down, stubbed out my fag and went back to Spikey and the girl. When I got there, Spikey glanced 211 | P a g e over and asked me if I was ‘Golf Tango’ and I said ‘affirmative’, and asked how she was. Spikey shook his head: ‘Better get our fingers out, Guy!’
We had to reappraise; there was no way either of us was going to be able to pull her quickly enough into the hole, so we had some of the infantry bods move the blast wall directly behind the hole, then we ran two ropes from gaps in the sandbags, across the ground and under the back of the trap door. We finished by tying the ropes to Micha like two big old lassos. Oh, and the other thing we had to do was lighten the trapdoor, so we removed most of the sandbags off of the top. Didn’t think too much of that, but the weight was driving the prop into the ground. 212 | P a g e
Chapter 41: Empty Lungs
The new plan was that a couple of the infantry guys would yank on the rope, which should be ample enough force to clear the half metre and knock the fucking prop out. In order to stop them pulling too far, we measured a half metre from the blast wall and tied two stakes into the ropes. The stakes would prevent the ropes being pulled further then necessary. This time, we didn’t test it. And while all this was happening, the world looked on.
It was now time to do this. Spikey’s head wound was causing some concern, so it was down to yours truly. I positioned myself in the hole, on my side, against the tin closest to Micha. I took my radio and told them to ease up any slack. When the ropes were as taut as was deemed feasible by Spikey, who was now safely behind the blast wall, he peeked out through a gap and radioed to me: ‘Here we go, Guy, on three… empty your lungs on two’.
The empty lungs bit was because in an explosion your chances of injury with empty lungs are far smaller compared to holding your breath. This is due to a nasty little side effect called over-pressurisation. It’s not a nice way to die.
I’m not religious, but I did take one last look at the girl, and if there was any entity working for us that day it would have been my anger and sheer determination to survive to get at the bastard that made these things that kill children. Either way, success or failure, I vowed again that someone would pay, and called out to E.O.D. Operative Tom ‘Spikey’ Johnson: ‘Ready!’
One…. Two…. Lungs empty… relax body, one hand on groin and grip visor with other to protect eyes. Three!!! Almost instantaneously there’s a fucking girl in the hole and I fling 213 | P a g e myself over. It’s dark, so the lid’s closed as planned, and then WHOP… pause … WHOP!!!
I’ve probably told this story to any daft fucker that would buy me a pint and I still say to this day, the sound of the explosions wasn’t ‘bang’ - it was WHOP - and then it’s like something hits your entire body with a truck.
The hole was filled with dust and acrid smoke, and I couldn’t breathe for what seemed ages, and for some reason my arse and back felt like they were on fire… I rolled back over and saw several holes punched in the tin above me, with sand leaking through them and, even though my brain was scrambled, I realised I’d taken some fragments. Then, the tin lid was gone, smiley faces appeared, and I was lifted out onto a canvas stretcher and pretty much straight into the back of a meat wagon; not a fucking clue at that time how the girl was.
In the back of the ambulance, I was spun over onto my front, and a line or two was pushed roughly into my arm, I was hurting like fuck, as the frags had been red hot when they entered my candy ass, and I do remember thinking somebody should definitely rethink the construction of the blast suits before I was going to play silly buggers like this again.
Later, at the temporary M.A.S.H at Camp Monteith, I was very glad they put me under when they took the seven pieces of foreign body out of me. As it happens, I wasn’t badly hurt; the suit stood up well. Perforation wounds were from the bouncing Betty, and the concussion and perforated eardrum I was also enjoying had come from the grenade that had exploded just after the secondary charge. But we’d done it… Spikey was there when they bought me round and told me the good news: Micha had also been on the operating table and if she got through the night was expected to survive. Both of which she obligingly did. 214 | P a g e
I saw her again three weeks later in a Children’s hospital in Zagreb, I didn’t fancy a visit to be honest - I was coerced by Spikey, who wanted to go but didn’t want to go on his own, the complete tart.
As it turned out, it was an interesting excursion. 215 | P a g e
Chapter 42: ‘You Will Be Suitably Compensated’.
As the two British Soldiers worked to free the Albanian Girl in Račak, Milo Petrović was in his study watching the live CNN broadcast of the developing situation.
On the walls, displayed next to hard metal weaponry and works of art, were the portraits of the arms dealer, taken alongside many notable international figures. In this place and at this time he felt untouchable, mostly… however, as the drama unfolded on his TV, the anger swelled. How dare these impudent British idiots put him on the spot over some pathetic little girl who was better off dead anyway! He had only continued to watch because the device the soldiers were attempting to disarm was one of his best-selling products. He had overseen its development personally and if these two lowlifes were to succeed, sales could suffer, and that was not tolerable.
Then, as the dust cleared from the last explosion and the cameras focussed on the ensuing chaos, he moved closer to the screen, squinting to witness the carnage first hand. Surely these idiots were no longer a problem! But nobody had died; the soldier and the girl were pulled triumphantly from the dust and, although battered, they were alive. The media were reporting the event as if some great hero had emerged from the very edge of destruction, cradling the soul of a child, and had even managed to get a close-up of the girl as she was stretchered away. Then an insert on the report had included an example of the very same make and model of the mine from whose clutches she had been saved and, worse still, there very plainly was the name ‘Petrović SH.p.k’ stencilled on its body.
Petrović stood, drank the remains of the single malt and hurled the glass at the TV, both of which disintegrated. The satisfaction of this act was short- lived, and his fury was not abated. He reached for the study phone. 216 | P a g e
“Did you see it? Well, did you? That filthy lying shit emblazoned on fucking CNN… and for the entire world to see!”
The arms dealer was shouting as he circled his desk. He was barely containing himself. As the weight of the whole situation sank in, he furiously threw hand gestures toward his speaker phone, gestures which were obviously invisible to the person on the other end.
“You have to tell the fucking Director of CNN… not the fucking monkeys that put these lies out, the fucking worthless asshole Director. You tell him that he has made a terrible mistake and must publically retract the lies of his worthless reporters!! You… you make him say that Petrović SH.p.k’ products had nothing to do with this and you tell him also that I will sue him through the international courts for damages if he does not. You can also add that his reporters may find that they are not welcome in certain places… you tell him or I will phone him personally, myself, tonight and then he will learn some more news, news that concerns you and your meddling government.”
Petrović paused and waited for the answer; he had just played his trump card and was now unsure of its impact. The speaker on his desk remained silent and he knew that the implications of his words were being absorbed and very carefully considered. For a moment, an icy wave of fear crept into his spine but was then beaten back by the arrogant belief in his own position and usefulness to this higher international power.
And then at last a response...
“Don’t do that Milo, let’s not fall out. I know you are angry, but much larger issues are at stake here.”
Relieved, Petrović exhaled, sat and extracted an expensive French cigarette from a silver dispenser. 217 | P a g e
“You will tell him yes?”
“We will… politely suggest that he reconsider, Milo, but we doubt that he…”
Petrović again furious, interrupted.
“You DOUBT… you doubt nothing! I have warned you.”
“Milo please, let me finish. These are not like the old times. In truth, we have little leverage on the world’s press and CNN. The director, Jim Walton, is a clean-living man, a stand up American with connections to Wal-Mart… if we can’t reason with him, I have been told to assure you that you will be suitably compensated.”
“How suitably?”
“Enough!”
Smugly now, Petrović stubbed his finger on the button that ended the conversation, and called for somebody to clean up the remains of the glass and TV. He had shown them that, big as they were, he was no pushover, and in this land he made the rules.
As he poured a celebratory malt, another conversation began somewhere in an air-conditioned office far across the world. Petrović’s usefulness and future were now being seriously discussed, as his rules were considered to be unreasonable. 218 | P a g e
Chapter 43: ‘I am the Wife of Milo Petrović.’
‘I’d like to talk about why you were arrested in Kosovo.’
“For fucksake… is that there in your folder as well, Doc? Well… they are thorough, the faceless ones that control our entire khaki bullshit destinies. So let me ask you a question. I think you have been building toward this particular little gem of a subject and I’m pretty sure I know where you’re heading with it. So… how much of my bullshit destiny is wrapped up in my - shall we say - explanation, satisfactorily delivered or fucking otherwise?
‘I’ll answer your question Sergeant because I want to, not because I’m obliged to. I think we can safely say that neither of us has any illusions as to why you are here and I’m sorry if you think, as you appear to be doing, that this is an imposition and a waste of your time. The facts are, apart from everything else in this quite comprehensive file, that you were implicated in the murder of a Kosovo national and the theft of several thousand dollars and frankly, given your specialist vocation, I find these implications a little difficult to ignore when accessing your character, as fit for purpose, and promotion.
And so?
‘And so, Sergeant Burrell, the answer to your question is a resounding yes! Quite a lot of your bullshit khaki destiny is wrapped up in your explanation, satisfactorily delivered or fucking otherwise.’
Ah right Ma’am, it is as I have oft noted that I’m being shafted, by HQ! Fair enough then. 219 | P a g e
I acknowledge first contact and will lay down an arc of covering fire whilst executing an immediate tactical withdrawal. And I will begin by pointing out, as no doubt your thickly sickly file will reflect, that I was released from detention without charge because nothing was proven. I believe, Ma’am, that my ‘really public arrest’ was a political smokescreen organised by men from Mars to appease the government of the Former Republic of Yugoslavia, which, by the way, no longer exists.
‘Men from Mars?’
Why the fuck not, Doc? Makes about as much sense as the rest of your answer!
‘Nevertheless, Guy, we need to - are going to - discuss these issues. Let’s start with the money, shall we?’
Money, eh? Okay. Like I said, Doc… why the fuck not?
Spikey and I found out where they took Micha and a few days later we had a whip-round in the mess and we bought her some smart new clothes and shit, utilising the able assistance of a female civvy clerk on base. By the way, this was all Spikey’s idea, not mine - I didn’t want to go at all, couldn’t really see the point.
So, having done the buying, we twocked a Drover from the MT and headed for the hospital. The press had obviously been there (but had now departed) because there were signs of rapid decoration in the reception area, which didn’t align with the state of the exterior. I also noted that some members of the reception staff were sporting new American digital type watches. Unfortunately, this meant that Spikey and I had to get a bit forceful in order to get to see Micha, as we weren’t after playing that old bribery game. 220 | P a g e
We were ushered down a long corridor past several wards that were screened off from view, eventually arriving at Micha’s bedside in a smallish room she shared with a couple of other kids. I was kind of pleased to see her. She was looking a bit thin, I suppose, but then she probably wasn’t all that big before having a mine sewn to her arse. Some of the room space was dedicated to the display of vases filled with expensive flower arrangements, and other assorted gifts. These apparently had been donated by the dozen or so politicians who had immediately aligned themselves with Micha… and then promptly fucked off, never to be seen again. Also there on her bedside table were signed photographs of the truly sycophantic. I wondered if the girl understood why she was now a bit of a celebrity and also if the cream of the gifts had already been spirited away by the staff.
Spikey and I agreed that we should show Micha our offerings and then get an address to send them to; we weren’t up for leaving them here to be distributed elsewhere. What followed next was the spectacle of a pair of English twats trying to mime ‘tell us the address of a relative’ to a teenage girl who spoke no English. Eventually, a doctor type entered the room and she spoke English well. She told us in no uncertain terms that Micha’s relatives all lay dead in that village, so she was now under the care of the state and that our gifts would be held safely by the hospital until she was well enough to go to a foster family.
So that was that, then. We gave Micha a token hug and, of course, I accidentally leant on her leg wound because I’m a clumsy idiot, and we made to leave. But we didn’t get far.
Outside the ward, quite a volatile discussion had begun, between a very brassy-looking lady, who appeared to be fairly well groomed, and the female doctor. The lady was pointing at us and insisting on something that the doctor was clearly not happy with. I thought ‘oh fuck, what now?’ With a growing 221 | P a g e sense of foreboding, Spikey and I both tried to circumnavigate the commotion without delay. We nearly made it, too, but then…
‘Which one is Sergeant Burrell, please?’ The lady had spoken and the doctor stood aside, shaking her head and muttering.
I pointed at Spikey, but my left breast name tag revealed my lie and I was cornered. I didn’t really want to play any more to be honest, the whole hospital visit having burdened me with politically-induced nausea which only several pints and a fight would cure.
But this lady was most insistent and spoke very good English: ‘I saw you on the news and have waited here for over a week, I hoped that you would come. I want to talk to you, it’s important.’
Even though I assured her that we were not going to be up for paying for anything else apart from a sandwich and a brew somewhere miles away from this fucking hospital, she continued relentlessly.
‘There is something you need to know. I am worried about Micha.’
‘Yeah, well, there’s fuck all can be done, love. She’s the state’s problem now. Sorry… but who are you?’
As the question struck home she got real serious…
‘I am the estranged wife of Milo Petrović.’
That got our attention. Spikey grabbed me by the shoulder and said ‘Guy, mate, time to fuck away off, methinks.’ But I was intrigued.
‘Well… I am pleased to meet you, Mrs Petrović. How’s the bastard getting on? Is he well? You may be aware that I had an interesting telephone 222 | P a g e conversation with him regarding some of his stock and because of that he is going to hunt me down and piss on my bones.’
The soon to be ex-Mrs Petrović was about forty, or slightly below. You could tell that money had been spent and she still had a decent figure. Her clothes were probably all designer labels, not that a grunt like me would know, but they reminded me of stuff I’d seen hanging off the wives of Brigadiers and their debutant daughters. She was not a happy bunny this one, and it soon became clear that she was also not overly concerned for the well-being of poor little Micha.
Spikey and I were guided to an office, the doctor in tow still shaking a head that sported a face like a slapped arse. When we were all sat down, Mrs P. revealed her reason for forcing this meeting. It turned out that she had been ousted from the bed space and level of lifestyle to which she had become accustomed by a younger model, and now she wasn’t allowed to see her children, as Mr P. considered her a bad influence. Worse still, she was forced to live in second-rate accommodation and eat ‘in fucking cafes’. As it became clear to Spikey and me that this was nothing to do with Micha, any sympathy I may have initially felt was now leaving me faster than morning wind from a real ale drinker, and then she said ‘There’s more!’
How much more could there be? Maybe she was also coerced into traveling by fucking bus! My God! We couldn’t tolerate that in a civilised society such as this one, where children were used as human bombs, now could we…
‘You are impressed with this hospital and staff?’ Trick question? Err not really! ‘Milo receives thousands of dollars every month for its upkeep and the wages of the staff; he has made himself the manager, you see. I would like now to show you, Sergeant, how well he spends the money. Please follow me.’ 223 | P a g e
I looked at Spikey, and he shrugged his shoulders in the way that he does, as if to say ‘here we go into another Burrell G shit storm’, and we stood to follow as instructed. The doctor, on seeing this, began to regale us loudly, shaking her index finger and loudly exclaiming in broken English ‘please, we don’t want trouble. Please not to make trouble.’
Mrs P. obviously knew the layout of the hospital well, and led us down some more corridors and into a stairwell that emerged on to a poorly-lit basement level. This corridor was lined with rusting bedframes and soiled sheets piled against the damp walls, ancient-looking ward equipment that you could only guess the purpose of, and other strange contraptions that were hung with what looked like restraints. As we ventured further into the depths, the dusty odour of the fungus spores, atrophy and dilapidation became ‘enhanced’ by the smell of urine and what I can only describe as rotting meat. Strange murmurings and shrill cries began to become evident, as did a real sense of dread as to what we were about to witness in this place. Then, ten feet in front of us off to the left, Mrs Petrović halted and pointed through a large archway… ‘In there. See for yourselves.’
I have to tell you Ma’am, the picture I am about to paint you can never adequately describe what was in that room, neither will it ever leave my head. 224 | P a g e
Chapter 44: Inside the Children’s Hospital.
‘Take your time, Sergeant. Help yourself to water and recount as best you can.’
Water! Clean water, in a glass… just right there for me to drink if and when I need to. Look, I can see the sun low in the sky through the window of this office. In a half hour or so, I’ll be in the bar with a Jameson’s and a pork pie, worrying about my mess bill and wishing I could have a feel of Alice the civvy barmaid’s breasts.
Apparently everybody else and their fucking brother has copped a grope… why not me? Is that something you can arrange? Let’s say it’s essential therapy or something. No? I thought not, but worth a try. They are always very tastefully displayed, Doc.’
‘Guy… it’s OK, I get it. Try to stay on track.’
On track, right… what I’m trying to outline is things that I take for granted and always have, I suppose, like wanting to grope some poor barmaid’s tits and the rest of the pathetic shit I worry about, all take on a different level of significance when you see what life can really be about.
So, anyway, we entered and the room was quite large, more of a wide hallway or massive storage area. The floor was covered with red and white linoleum tiles, lifting at the edges and infested with grime, and there were thirty beds and cots arranged either side. We were below ground level, so there were no windows for the sun to invade the corners and warm any occupants. I couldn’t see any means of ventilation, either, and the stale air and stench was overwhelming. Illumination came from strip lights that hung from rusty chains attached to a failing plaster ceiling, home of a thousand 225 | P a g e ancient webs and their architects. Somebody had attempted to decorate a wall or two at some time with pictures of Micky Mouse and Dumbo, crudely painted on the rendering. The Hollywood smiles of the characters smugly mocked and were as inappropriate as naked pole dancers would be in a clap clinic.
If you’d built a ward - for want of a better word - and then you fucked off for a decade and left it, this place is what you’d find when you came back.
There were staff here, of sorts, quite a few actually, and they halted what they were doing as we entered. They were bewildered to see us and obviously scared and embarrassed. I know this because out of the corner of my eye I saw stuff being flung hastily into cupboards and under beds. They were all middle-aged woman of various shapes, but their faces were what I noticed mostly, at that time… the tiredness in their eyes, Doc - resigned and without hope, I’ve never seen anything like that.
Mrs P. was strangely without emotion as she gestured toward the nearest cot, but she had an air of triumph about her. Obediently, Spikey and I moved slowly to it and we peered over the edge. A human child of indeterminable age lay in a dirty yellow smock. The child was skeletal and all its limbs restrained by leather straps. I say ‘it’ because I couldn’t even tell if the occupant was female or male, the main reason for that was that the child had only half a face. I swear to you… half a fucking face with all the sinuses, eye socket and soft pallet exposed. It just lay there and stared about… my impression was that it had been here since birth. Every hour of every day must have felt like an eternity. Consequently, any inherent sanity that may have been present at birth was now long gone, and that was just the beginning, Doc. 226 | P a g e
They weren’t all mad, you see. One little girl of about three reached out to be picked up as Spikey passed her cot. As he duly obliged, the nurses went ape saying ‘no… not pick up!’ but it was too late and the child, still restrained by her legs, buried herself into the lad’s smock. It took three fucking nurses to pull her off. As they tugged at her tiny body her screams echoed the ones in my head and I thought Spikey was going to lose it and beat the fuck out of somebody. I wouldn’t have stopped him! As the child sank back, sobbing into the stinking hell that was her life, some of the others, frightened by the screams, began to whimper.
Spikey was standing at an angle with his head propped against the adjacent wall. He was in bits, and I thought it best to let the lad alone for a spell. I had to ask though, about the girl, why was she here? Because she looked OK - very thin but no obvious signs of deserving this particular lifestyle. Mrs P. didn’t know, or probably didn’t care, but the doctor motioned toward Spikey and was holding out a bandage which she had soaked in some foul green antiseptic. ‘Take to him, soldier, for hands and face, girl dirty… she is with AIDS!’
I could go on. As stated, there were thirty cots and beds and Spikey and I were shown every fucking one. Burn victims from the war swathed in recycled bandages, spastic, deformed and mentally retarded kids, you name it… it was all here. This was where this country dumped its unwanted and its incurables, out of sight and mind.
Spikey had recovered somewhat, though his eyes were noticeably reddened, and with a voice that didn’t come from the man that I knew, asked: ‘Why are most of them restrained? Do they stay like that all the time?’
The answer to the latter was an inevitable yes. 227 | P a g e
‘But why?’
The doctor, now resigned to the fact that we were here and taking all this in, spoke to Mrs P. in length and then she said ‘Tell them this.’
Mrs Petrović duly translated: ‘All the nurses here do their best. They make the children as comfortable as they can but the majority have severe behavioural problems and they don’t have enough of the correct drugs to control them. Also, they have not been paid in months, but still come every day and do their duty.’
The doctor spoke again and Mrs Petrović continued. ‘You seemed to be worried that the Muslim girl will not receive your gifts; the doctor says that you are probably correct; the nurses also have children at home that need shoes and pretty dresses, and those expensive bouquets of flowers will be given to local churches, maybe in absolution for the suffering of the patients here. Why should one girl have all of this when the ones that care for her have nothing?’
I thought it bad timing to point out that the cost of just one of her fancy shoes could probably feed the entire ward for a month with enough left over for a staff party.
‘I take it then, Sergeant, that you and Spikey were very angered by what you witnessed. Did you blame Petrović specifically for the state of the hospital? I mean, it is perfectly natural that scenes like that could cloud judgement, and hasty, ill-thought-out plans of atonement could be considered. I can see how much you are still carrying with you.’
Carrying with me? You know what… I once worked in an abattoir, Doc. The smell of the butchery used to somehow get into your nose in such a way that it was always with you, on your hands and soaked into the clothes you wore. 228 | P a g e
Eventually it wore off and the essence of the place went with it. But I know that I will never escape the memories of that basement, because you can’t scrub your soul clean, can you! In my mind, even after all these years, I know that basement still exists and those scraps of pathetic unwanted humanity are still fucking well there, and Doctor, I tell you… they still call out to me louder than the mates that I’ve lost ever could.
Well, anyway… As were finally leaving, we learned that the Red Cross supplied food parcels and some medicines, but it was a pittance. Mrs P. had reiterated that the money that Milo Petrović was siphoning off was intended for the wages, upkeep of the building and gasoline for the generators etc… I was beginning to feel like a right shit for judging the staff and wondered how many western nurses would be willing, or could afford, to work in such a place for no money.
So what was this ultimately all about then? Well, quite simply, Mrs P. wanted revenge on her husband. And she wanted us to be the tools of her justice… I wasn’t entirely sure that I agreed with her motivations but I was keen to fuck Milo Petrović up if that was a possibility. So we continued to indulge her and she had it all planned out, too.
Every month, a van would collect the aid, always in cash, from secure N.A.T.O coffers in the west of Zagreb. The van never travelled under guard, as everybody knew that Petrović would fall upon any would-be transgressors and make terrible examples of them. Mrs P. knew the route that it travelled and just where it could be taken. She suggested that the funds therein could be split half to her and half to us. But then that would leave the problem of Milo Petrović himself who would definitely suspect that she had been instrumental in the hijack. We would further have to earn our money by eliminating him, and she also had a plan for this. 229 | P a g e
Her father was employed by Petrović at his residence as a groundsman, and was trusted with the care of his two Doberman guard dogs. Her father naturally hated the arms dealer and wanted him dead, too. So just after we take the money, after dishing out her half of course, she would send word to her father, who would drug the dogs so we could break in and kill Petrović… simple eh? Just like that. We three ‘would-be assassins’ spoke well into the early evening, taking notes and stuff and nodding accordingly, and then she supplied us with contact details and we all left.
‘So you considered the plan? Both you and Corporal Johnson?’
The fuck we did, Doc. Murder and armed robbery is well above our pay grade. I took my notes and handed them to the S.A.S C.O. based at N.A.T.O. Operations Zagreb, and got on with my life. Hadn’t got a clue why I was subsequently arrested. Spikey fucking wasn’t!
‘That would be because images of Corporal Johnson were not spotted on the security cameras in the street adjacent to the arms dealer’s house. However, I have stills of the alleged killer in this file, taken the night of the murder. They are admittedly blurred, but they look very much like you, Sergeant. I also have copies of witness testimonies, taken from a certain children’s hospital, describing a British soldier leaving four large sacks of one hundred dollar bills at their reception. The evidence of your involvement is rather compelling, don’t you think?’
Yeah, I saw the images and the testimonies were thrust under my nose, but I’m sure that your file also says that I was at Camp Monteith having a check- up the night before all this badness was happening and then later in the mess the day after. Not only is it impossible to get to Zagreb and back in that time- frame, but investigations show that all the transports were present or 230 | P a g e accounted for throughout that period. That was why they let me go, Ma’am. I think we might just be covering old ground here.
‘So what do you think happened then, Guy? Did your men from Mars fly down and do it? No, and neither did the SAS, because I know it was you, and I’ll tell you now - off the record - I don’t blame you. I’m not here to decide on your guilt or innocence in this particular matter, my job is to decide if you are of sound mind and still an asset to your regiment. So man up, Sergeant, and tell the truth so we can get you back to work.’ 231 | P a g e
Chapter 45: Joe and the Rabbit
Sergeant Guy Burrell woke late and cursed as he realised that he’d missed breakfast. He hadn’t slept well - there was always a constant mechanised din in places such as these, the comings and goings of personnel with heavy machinery was 24/7, but this he was accustomed to. It wasn’t the sounds of the Army that prevented slumber, it was the noises his ear defenders would never be able to block out, the cries that were in his head… and he feared they would likely rob him of his sleep for the rest of his life.
As he shook off the cramps from the metal-framed bunk and drank instant coffee, he watched the organised chaos as it ensued directly beneath his billet window. There were worse camps in Bosnia, temporary or permanent, which tended to be commandeered barracks or schools converted from books to boots. Just like in Northern Ireland in the eighties and early nineties, or Belize and Gibraltar, there were postings that made ‘Soldiering-on’ easy and there were others that filled a squaddie with fear and dread; for example no soldier ever came back from the Falklands tanned and eager for another tour. The camp that Sergeant Guy Burrell found himself at today was shared with American combined forces, and therefore was extremely well equipped. It’s well known by the envious British soldier that everything was bigger and better in the organisation that is Uncle Sam’s Army, and many a great night out was talked about at G.B U.S.A.F bases such as Lakenheath or Mildenhall, especially if you were lucky enough to be training in the forests around Thetford.
The sergeant had availed himself of the hospitality therein on many occasions, signing himself in as Major Ian C. Dent or Corporal Pun-ishment (from Pakistan) just because it amused him greatly that nobody ever checked, unlike the officious British who were sticklers for paperwork. When asked 232 | P a g e who he had come to visit he would then claim an appointment with a Captain Jack Daniels or Staff Sergeant Glen Fiddich.
This morning, apart from low blood sugar and no breakfast to compensate, Burrell’s burst eardrum was aching as it healed and all this put the Sergeant in a foul mood, a mood that wasn’t going to get any better, as later that day he was to enjoy a very long and officious de-briefing with the ‘Secret Squirrels’ of Cheltenham, or ‘MI6’ as was their correct title. The main topic would strangely be centred on his telephone conversation with the arms dealer and they produced an exact transcript for his comment. Burrell had initially thought that he was in trouble for slamming the phone down in the mobile HQ and was on the defensive ready to buy favour with the intel’ provided by the arms dealer’s estranged spouse, but as the de-briefing ensued it appeared that all they wanted to know was how seriously had he regarded the threats made against him by Petrović.
For some reason, Burrell decided that now was not the time to disclose his meeting with Mrs Petrović and the details thereof, so dismissed the threats as empty. The meeting ended with a reminder that he was ‘not, under any circumstances, to communicate details about, or his involvement in, the aftermath of the massacre at Račak, to the media or other personnel not designated NTK (need to know).’ Burrell signed some documents which incorrectly stated that he had ‘read and agreed the preceding declaration’ and then departed for the Mess.
He had some pretty heavy memories with mental pictures, sounds and smells obtained from his visit to the children’s hospital that he wished to bury using the gift of Single Malt Whisky, and was absolutely not in the mood for another coming together with the American Air force Tae-kwon-do expert. But there was the man at the bar, and worst still, he was surrounded by his entourage, who all fell silent as he approached. Burrell braced himself, 233 | P a g e preparing for a testosterone-fuelled rematch that he wasn’t expecting to survive. If he could just get half a bottle of malt down his neck first, whatever occurred immediately after would just be a blur and another trip to the infirmary.
Burrell was almost at the bar, and sanctuary, when the big U.S.A.F fighter rose from his stool and intercepted him. Burrell was stopped in his tracks and sighed, ‘here it fucking comes’ and instinctively took a side-on stance. Whether or not this was noted became immaterial, as his would-be opponent held out his hand and said: ‘We heard what you did, Sergeant. The boys and I would like to stand you a round. That’s if you are not too proud to drink with lesser mortals.’ Burrell raised an eyebrow, took the hand of friendship and then took the free alcohol and forgot about his bad mood and earache.
That night and into the next day, the session became serious and not designed for lightweights; the ranks had thinned noticeably as many of the entourage had peeled off, claiming early duty. As the remaining men bonded, Burrell became increasingly angry and began to share the experiences of the last few days with his new-found comrades-at-arms and fellow dedicated drinkers.
‘That fuckwit arms dealer ‘Petro-bollocks’ is invincible. I know the bastard is propped up by the faceless suits that are running this war. I swear that I would string him up by the balls given half the chance.’
There were now only three of the party left; it was half two in the morning. The American Tae-kwon-do lad was called Joe and was a helicopter pilot; his companion was an Ammunition Tech who, for reasons better known to Joe, was called ‘Rabbit’. The third was Burrell, who was now leaving the Official Secrets Act buried in a large glass of bourbon. 234 | P a g e
‘Well why the heck don’t you, Guy?’ said Joe. ‘You have all the Intel’ from that wife of his, let’s frag the asshole.’
Through the fog of the alcohol, Burrell suddenly realised that this was not a rhetorical question, Rabbit was nodding and some kind of an answer was required. Burrell went quiet and was thinking that he may just have said too much, but then Rabbit broke the silence.
‘Hey, you wanna know something? I have a few of those PROM devices in the Technical Ordnance wing; the Opps’ take the main charge out but leave them active for our ‘Creepers’ to disarm! It wouldn’t be a problem to rearm one of those babies and kinda lose its existence in paperwork.’ Rabbit closed in to Burrell, speaking quietly. ‘So what I’m thinking is that the justice of Petrović being fragged by his own shit is some real cool Karma, and who would be blamed?’
‘I fucking well would be, mate, for a start - or that harpy wife of his would and she’d bubble me in sparrow’s fart time!’
Joe took over: ‘Not if you had an alibi that proved you weren’t anywhere close when it was triggered! We don’t want the mine to sit in the ground for more than a day in case it gets triggered by collaterals, so timing is essential. It would be easy to find out the layout of his pad, I have some friends in Satellite Intel who could provide some pictures and so that’s where we’d plant the PROM, right in the bastard’s driveway. Might take a week or so, but it’s a runner, Guy.’
‘OK, Joe. I hear you, but I stick out around here like an unwanted hard-on because images of my candy ass have been flashed all over the place. If I turn up in Zagreb….’ 235 | P a g e
Joe and Rabbit turned to each other and began a private discussion; Burrell gave up trying to hear what was obviously being plotted, sank another bourbon, and beckoned a tired-looking barman for a supply of carbohydrate. A large bag of monkey nuts appeared which weren’t optimal for the sergeant but, being all there was, were accepted.
‘Guy. Do you have to go back to the MASH at all? You know - to get your ear checked?’
‘I will at some stage, I guess. The fucking thing is getting to be a trial!’
Rabbit was grinning, two very prominent front teeth and big cheeks revealing the source of his nickname.
‘That’s your alibi, buddy! Joe is often in and out of there with medical supplies, so you show up and get checked out, then go convalesce somewhere outta sight. Then Joe will fly you into Zagreb, where you and I will go fuck this Petrović and be home before we’re missed. You see, the security at Zagreb is all about the mortars coming in from the hills, nobody in a blue cap gets a second look! What do you say, buddy, want some righteous payback?’
Sergeant Guy Burrell did not consider himself anything more than a bomb- stopper, he was only in the army due to a choice of two paths offered by a local magistrate and had never expected to stay in, let alone actually kill some fucker. But recent events had changed his mind about a lot of things; if it wasn’t for individuals and large companies, all of whom made many millions for themselves, supplying the ordnance, wars would be difficult to fight. At the very least, men would have to return to battering each other with sharp sticks, and maybe children would be allowed to grow up without having explosives sewn to their backsides. So yeah, fuck it, why not? Maybe it would 236 | P a g e send a message to the scummy dealers and fat cat manufacturers… just maybe. Either way, the world would be significantly better off without Milo Petrović stealing its oxygen.
Burrell gathered three empty glasses toward the bourbon bottle, refilled them, and pushed two back to the Americans.
‘I’m in… but there would be need to be an additional mission included.’
The adrenalin produced by the weight of the decision had sobered him somewhat, and his head now span for a different reason as he realised that he and the others were actually going to do this. He held his glass up for Joe and Rabbit to join in a toast and as they responded he said:
‘We’re going to need to rob a N.A.T.O cash aid consignment!’
To Be Continued. 237 | P a g e
Burrell and Coulson’s OP
The RUC Roadblock 238 | P a g e
Kosovo Burrell’s Plan to save the girl. 239 | P a g e
EPILOGUE 240 | P a g e
‘The two soldiers had worked rapidly following a well-practised plan: they wouldn’t be around to see the result. They felt nothing more for the lost souls they’d left behind, or those in the hills they were about to execute. Another fucking gang of Albanian terrorists despatched, nothing more or less, nobody could be considered an innocent, and if any survived it was because they were to bear witness that this was revenge without compromise.’
This work is dedicated to the Memory of; Captain Steven Peter Wormald, 28, of 2nd Battalion, Royal Anglian Regiment, to those RAOC heroes that risk everything without hesitation, and to the professionalism of the servicemen and women of the British Army in the continuing hope that one day the world will find a compromise.
…coming soon HARDER STILL Burrell.G