First Into Action (23 page)

‘I’m panicking because there’s petrol running down the side of your window,’ he said.

I instantly looked, and he was quite right. It was gushing down.

‘Holy shit!’ was the general exclamation as we both scrambled out of his window as fast as we could. The car never caught alight though.

On completion of the four-month selection course, nine males and three women remained. The women, Janet amongst them, were sent to Belfast along with three of the men. Three men went to Londonderry: Mike as second-in-command, Jack the pugilistic Guardsman, and Arthur from the SBS. I was headed for South Det on the southern border along with fat John, and Brock the badger, who had worked hard to achieve his ambition to make it into special forces before he retired, and by doing so became the oldest front-line operative in the organisation.

Within two weeks, one of the men was shot dead on his first assignment.

8

Before going over the water we were given two days’ leave. I went home to Poole to see some squadron friends and also to do some judo. I was a first-dan black belt by then and four months off the mat had left me rusty. I met up with a friend, Harvey, a Marine whose family lived in Dublin. He had ambitions to join the SBS one day and also to represent Britain in the Olympics at judo. He eventually achieved both. He later distinguished himself in the Falklands with the SBS by shooting a Mig fighter out of the skies with his GPMG. I believe it was the only jet fighter shot down by a hand-held bullet-firing weapon in the conflict. Jet fighters fly at an incredible speed during battle, and when low to the ground have usually passed overhead by the time they are heard. There are no simple rules to shooting one down with a machine-gun other than give it plenty of lead while trying to estimate its speed and distance in the few seconds available, and hope for the best.

Harvey was part of the SBS team that cleared an Argentinian detachment on Fanning Head, a hilltop that overlooked San Carlos, where the main invasion was taking place. They killed several soldiers and took the rest prisoner. After taking the position, Harvey was checking the Argentinian dead (thanks for the bayonet, Harv) when a shout went up that Migs were coming up the sound and heading directly towards them. There were two jets flying one behind the other at full attack speed. They climbed out of the sound and screamed over the hilltop directly above the SBS detachment. The team had just seconds to react. Those who were quick enough opened fire with their M16s, but Harvey grabbed his heavy 7.62 mm belt-fed machine-gun and let rip skyward. Every fifth round in the belt is a tracer – a bullet that leaves a glowing red tail allowing the gunman to see precisely where his rounds are going. Harvey’s tracers were seen hitting the Mig before it exploded. I later asked Harvey how he did it.

‘To tell you the truth, I was aiming for the first Mig but I shot down the second,’ he admitted.

The luck of the Irish.

There were several Irish operatives in the SBS. For obvious reasons, they were given the option of not going over the water. I never asked Harvey how he felt about the conflict, considering his family was Catholic. I don’t think his family had any idea he was in British special forces or he would not have been able to go home and visit his many brothers and sisters. He never asked me for my thoughts either. He knew my involvement, as most others, was unemotional.

I went with Harvey to visit my old civilian judo club where the members were only too happy to welcome me (from where, they had no idea, of course) by giving me a serious round-robin workout. The club had twelve other black belts, and four months off the mat meant a stiff and painful following morning climbing out of bed. Before returning to Camp Two and embarkation I decided to pass through London and visit my father.

It was a strange meeting after such a long time. Now I was taller than him, broader, and, as was no doubt somewhat confusing for him, scruffy, long-haired, unshaven and loutish in preparation for the circles I was about to move in. His first thought was that I had already left the Marines. When I told him I had not, he didn’t ask any questions and I never offered an explanation. He still worked as a wine waiter in a London hotel, did the football pools, met his old cronies for drinks once or twice a week and spent the rest of his time alone at home stripping down vacuum cleaners, radios and televisions – anything mechanical or electrical that still had valves – so he could fix them up and sell them at second-hand auctions. Every surface in the apartment was strewn with bits and pieces. My world was a million miles from his and he was sufficiently aware of it not to even begin to want to know. We shared a meal and a bottle of fine wine from his job on a dining-table surrounded by the parts of several typewriters. As I left that evening he hugged me as awkwardly as ever and told me to be careful.

When I arrived back at Camp Two, all the operatives looked as scruffy as I did except Jack, the powerful Guardsman. He had a fresh Army haircut and wore a cheap, formal, grey-flannel suit that looked a size too small for him. Throughout the training he had never quite got out of the habit of walking, standing or sitting straight-backed like a Guardsman. He was recognisable as a soldier in much the same way as many plain-clothes police officers are recognisable as cops. Jack had learned all the skills of undercover work but had failed to take on the slovenly demeanour of the cast we would mingle with most. I had my ear pierced for my SBS tour and put in a new gold ear-ring to complete the look.

Before we flew out, one of the SAS DS asked Arthur and me what we thought about Jack as an operative – he respected our opinion as members of the SBS. He admitted that he had concerns. Jack’s shortcomings were obvious to those of us on the course, but it was not our place to point that out to the DS, even if those shortcomings signalled a danger. However, since he asked, we were frank. We wondered why Jack had been selected for the job if they thought, as we did, he was a risk to himself and also to his fellow operatives. The answer was age-old. It was the numbers game and there was a shortage of operatives. The manpower accountants hoped that borderline cases such as Jack would improve under the pressure of live operational involvement. That had been true of many borderline cases in the past, but Jack was never to get the chance.

As Jack was arriving at North Det I arrived at South Det and was greeted by a long-haired, bearded operative in the final weeks of his tour whose job it was to ‘show me around’. It was Huk, the SBS operative who disappeared shortly after surviving the submarine disaster in Scotland.

Huk was from the north-west Highlands, a farm-boy originally, a quiet man who spoke with a tender lilt and had a manner that was gentle and unassuming. In the two weeks we spent together, mostly driving around the operational area to familiarise me with the many locations of importance and learning the spots (the codes for known locations), I got to learn a little about him.

He was in his late twenties and, I assumed, headed back to the squadron to build on his already illustrious career, hoping of course he would be spared any more death-defying situations as close as those he had experienced. On our last outing, a couple of days before he left, he told me he was in something of a quandary about his future. I felt somewhat honoured because not only did Huk never talk about himself, but this exceptional soldier whom every young member of the SBS, including myself, wished to emulate, actually wanted my humble advice.

His father had died several years earlier and had left the family farm to him. It was situated miles from civilisation in the Highlands. As Huk was a serving soldier his uncle took over the responsibilities of the farm until Huk was ready. A few months earlier, Huk’s uncle, who was getting too old to run such a large farm, had sent him an ultimatum. Huk had to decide whether to leave the SBS and take over the land, or give it up for good. But that was not the only problem nagging at Huk. There was a girl, his childhood sweetheart, and if he gave up the farm and did not move back to the Highlands it would mean giving her up too.

Huk had gone to school in a small town that serviced his own and the other outlying farms. He had known the girl for as long as he could remember. They always felt that they would be together one day, all the locals did too, even when he packed his bags at the age of sixteen and left to head down south and join the Royal Marines. He expected to be gone just a few years, long enough to see something of the outside world before returning. The few years turned into many and contact between them had petered out to virtually nothing. The last time he had seen her had been during a brief visit to bury his father. He knew she was still unmarried from letters he occasionally received from his uncle. She was also waiting to learn of his decision before giving up hope entirely. She had never left the small town and had no idea about his life and little of the outside world.

Huk was torn. He believed she was the woman for him, however . . .

It’s hard to think of two lives so different. He wasn’t sure if he could live that life of solitude again, and if he attempted to, how long he would last. He enjoyed the fast-paced existence of special forces even though he had come close to being killed so many times. The life of a farmer, in the remote Highlands, virtually cut off from civilisation, would be a radical change, to say the least.

I wasn’t much help to him. There are some decisions a person has to make alone. I don’t think he really wanted my advice anyway. I suppose everyone needs to talk to someone sometimes, even men like Huk. When I said goodbye to him he was deeply troubled and had not made up his mind.

Several months later Huk left the SBS and I never heard from him again.

Many years later, when I was part of the SBS training team and running phases of the SBS selection course myself, I overheard a group of young SBS members who had just returned from a field exercise in northern Scotland. They had been heading across country towards a final rendezvous in the early hours of the morning. As they crossed a stretch of rugged, treeless, boulder-strewn land, a farmer and his sheepdog popped out of nowhere to greet them. He had seen them approaching from miles away and had waited for them in a hollow. He was a mild, pleasant and genuine man and offered them a cup of tea in his farmhouse not far away. The men, always keen to maintain local relations, accepted, though they were surprised by this exceptional show of hospitality from a Highlands farmer.

The farm could not have been more isolated. According to their maps the nearest main road was some twenty miles away. The SBS operatives were fully equipped and armed as they would have been for a real operation, but the farmer did not appear curious about their get-up. When they told him they were simply regular Marines on exercise he smiled and nodded. He led them through the back door of his farm and into the kitchen. He introduced his wife, a darling they said, with the same calm mannerisms as him. She insisted they have breakfast to go along with their cup of tea. When it was time to leave, he led them through the house to the front door. In the hallway there were several plaques on the wall. One was the regular Royal Marines emblem, another was from a Royal Navy submarine, and the last was from the SBS. Beside the SBS plaque were several medals which included an unofficial campaign medal from the Sultan of Oman, a Northern Ireland campaign medal and the Queen’s Gallantry Medal. The lads agreed that, although none of them could live a life as isolated at that, the farmer, who never mentioned his past nor that his nickname was Huk, seemed content.

When Jack and Arthur arrived at North Det, an operation was taking place in the city of Londonderry. The PIRA was planning to assassinate a senior member of the RUC and the Det had been asked by the RUC’s Special Branch to take over the operation. The Det knew where the weapons earmarked for the hit were hidden, and planted a bug. It was standard procedure for the IRA to hide weapons in safe houses or in special hides such as the cemetery described earlier. The Det didn’t want the courier who picked up the weapons but the men who were going to use them.

Arthur and Jack spent the first few weeks doing ground orientation, as I was doing with Huk, and as soon as that was complete they were given their own cars. Since Jack was such a large man he was given the biggest car the Det had, a pale blue boat that no one else wanted because it stood out like a sore thumb. Jack was eager to get out on the ground and so he accepted it. Arthur was concerned about Jack and decided to advise the commanding officer. Arthur suggested Jack should be given more time to ‘get into character’. Jack had not been the first borderline case to arrive at the Det, and others before him had managed to find their feet and learn to become effective operatives. Every man was needed for the weapon-following operation, but the commanding officer gave Jack the least important job and would make a decision based on his performance. That was fair enough, and so Arthur left it alone.

That day, Jack left the secret Det headquarters with the rest of the team and parked up in a moderately busy street on the edge of the Bogside. He sat in his car listening to the radio through his hidden ear-piece as the operation kicked off. The weapons had been picked up and were on the move, being transported in a blue pick-up truck in the hands of the ASU that was going to use them. The operation had become hot.

The Det was close on the gunmen’s tail in several cars while a helicopter tracked the bug from high. The IRA were aware of the use of helicopters as spies in the sky, so it flew as high as it could. The plan was to follow the weapons to the target, confirm beyond doubt the deadly intent, then step in. It came like a bolt out of the blue when suddenly the truck changed direction in the middle of the city and veered away from its expected track. The operation took a giant swerve in an effort to try and work out where the ASU were now headed. The immediate assumption was that the gunmen had discovered the tail and cancelled the hit. For a few precious minutes the Det lost visual contact with the weapons.