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    The chief opposition force to the apartheid regime in South Africa was the African National Congress. It had been crippled by the arrest of Nelson Mandela and his colleagues in the early sixties but revived after the Soweto riots in 1976. Each time the government banned a moderate black opposition group, the A.N.C's membership swelled. In 1980 it began a successful bombing campaign, attacking plants manufacturing oil from coal.
    In December 1982 the South African military raided Lesotho and killed forty-two members of the A.N.C in Maseru. In May 1983 a car bomb outside the Ministry of Defense in Pretoria killed nineteen people and injured over two hundred, including many black civilians. The bombing campaign increased after the 1984-86 riots.
    There were scores of attacks throughout South Africa, killing many people.
    Then, in June 1985, South African forces carried out a raid on Gaborone, the capital of Botswana. Several ral homes were raided, and twelve men, allegedly A.N.C members, were killed in their sleep. The South African government alleged that Botswana territory was used by A.N.C guerrillas to launch attacks inside South Africa, including recent mine blasts that had killed white farmers near the border. Botswana rejected the claims, arguing that it did its utmost to prevent A.N.C military activities inside its territory.
    Botswana appealed to the British for help; the appeal was approved by Foreign Secretary Sir Geoffrey Howe and a. Regiment squadron of eighty men was to be sent to train Botswana's soldiers to defend their country against border raids by Big Brother. Selected soldiers from the BDF (Botswana Defense Force) would be given special training, including techniques of aggressive counterattack to neutralize South African raiding parties. We were told the training would take place in the north of the country, well away from the South African border.
    We would not be involved in any contact with the S.A.D.F (South African Defense Force).
    The Botswana Defense Force's mobility was shortly to be enhanced by the arrival of a number of helicopters to be provided by the U.S under a ten-million-dollar military aid program. The U.S was also providing special training in counter intelligence techniques to the Botswana security forces to offset penetration by South African agents; the skills we taught them would also make it easier for the BDF to detect any counterinfiltration by A.N.C guerrillas.
    We finished our planning and preparation for the job.
    Everything, we were told, was TS (top secret). The squadron would be flying from Brize Norton to Kenya, because that was not an unusual troop movement. From there we'd all be splitting off into little groups, making our way into Botswana by different timings and routes.
    We got to Kenya and split up. Six of us stayed in the country for a while; others were going off to other African countries for a few days before starting to filter into Botswana to our squadron RP. Some of the blokes went off on safaris while they were biding their time; I mooched around with Ben, a jock who'd just joined the squadron. We went to a place called the Carnivore, a big meat-eating place where you could eat as much meat as you wanted for about tuppence. I stuffed myself and got food poisoning and had to spend the next two days in bed.
    The six of us finally got on a plane to Zaire. We spent a little time mooching around there, then flew to Zambia. The country was chockablock with Russians.
    They all looked like bad Elvis impersonators from the seventies, with greased-back hair, sideburns three-quarters of the way down the face, and unfashionable suits and plastic shoes.
    We wandered around Zambia departures looking at the Russians, and the Russians were looking at us. They knew who we were, and we knew who they were. The official cover story for us was that we were a seven-aside rugby team on tour. Nobody questioned us about it, which was probably just as well. I could have been hit over the head with a rugby ball at that time and I wouldn't have had a clue what it was.
    And the seven-aside story was a bit dodgy as well, seeing as there were only six of us.
    We ended up sharing a small propeller aircraft with three or four Russian "officials" and a Russian pop music band that was ostensibly traveling around all the military units. The drummer had fallen straight off the cover of the Woodstock album, dressed in flared loons, a headband, and a Cat Stevens T-shirt. judging by the way he was air-drumming on the magazine on his lap, he was no more a drummer than I was JPR Williams.
    We eventually got to a small metal airstrip in the middle of Botswana. A few blokes from the squadron were already there; some of them, I could see, were nursing injuries. The squadron O.C and Fraser turned u;
    Fraser p had broken his collarbone and was walking around with his arm in a sling.
    We got in some vehicle and went off to the squadron RP, which-inevitably-was an aircraft hangar.
    Over the next couple of days the rest of the blokes trickled in from all over the place. Some came in from Zimbabwe and were in a right state.
    They'd had a day out in the sun, and Toby, better known as Slaphead, having been bald since he was aged about nine, had gone up on the roof of the hotel and fallen asleep. The front half of his body was totally burned, and his face and forehead were already starting to peel.
    While we were waiting, the ice-cream boys organized an Islander turbo aircraft that could take seven of us at a squeeze, and off we went jumping. We wanted to learn infiltration techniques in that part of the world, going in against not too sophisticated radars. I jumped my arse i off over the next three or four days, getting back into the swing of free fall, going up to twelve grand, leaping out and just basically having fun.
    On one particular jump I was going out as a "floater."
    An Islander has only small doors, which meant that everybody couldn't exit at the same time. We were only jumping at twelve grand, so it was important to get all seven of us going off at the same time.
    The technique was for various floaters to climb outside the aircraft and hold on to whatever bits and pieces they could.
    I was rear floater, which should have entailed putting my left hand onto the left-hand side of the door, wedging my left foot against the bottom corner of the doorframe and then swinging out and holding on with my right hand to a bit of fuselage. However, I screwed up.
    As I swung out, I lost my footing and fell, going straight into free fall long before the planned exit. To make matters worse, I was over the town.
    There was no way I was going to be able to track to get the distance to reach the DZ, so I pulled quite high, hoping I'd be able to use the canopy to go in. With the wind behind me the canopy gave about twenty-five knots, but I was losing too much elevation. Soon I would have to turn back into wind to land. I scanned the ground, trying to sort myself out. There seemed to be nothing below but high-voltage pylons and cars speeding along the roads, then masses of people running out of buildings to look at this little thing dangling from a big blue canopy.
    I just managed to clear a line of pylons and hit the street, landing between cars. It was a really bad landing; I hit my arse hard, and the canopy enveloped me. Immediately hundreds of little hands started tugging at the fabric, shouting and laughing joyously. I had visions of my parachute being ripped to shreds and shouted the first thing that came into my head.
    "Okey-dokey!"
    A hundred voices replied, "Okey-dokey! Okey-dokey! " I rolled the canopy up and sat at the roadside, chatting to all my new friends, while I waited for a wagon to come and pick me up.
    "Okey-dokey?"
    "Okey-dokey!"
    The conversation was still going when the vehicle arrived, and for days after that all anybody would say to me was "Okey-dokey!"
    We moved to the camp where we were going to be based. We got our camp beds or air beds out, spread out our sleeping bags, and made our own little world. The camp was a group of old, run-down buildings.
    Very much like everything else in Africa, the walls had holes in them and the plaster was coming away. We rigged up some lights to the generator, and that meant we could read. Fiona had bought me a book called The Grail Romances, I'd read Holy Blood, Holy Grail just to give me enough information to give Frank Collins a hard time about the religion and had ended up really gripped by medieval history. Poor Fiona had trooped around hundreds of churches, forts, and motte-and-bailey castles with me.
    They'd been used to a lot of South African incursions in the area.
    Basically the S.A.D.F would come out of South Africa, chuck a left, and go up into Angola along the Caprivi strip. There was quite a lot of attention initially when we arrived; people were unsure of what we were and who we were. To these villagers, if there was a white eye and a gun, it meant a South African.
    After a while we'd wake up in the mornings and there'd be hundreds and hundreds of villagers along the fence line. They'd turned up for freebies. Now and again I gave them the sweets out of the compo rations and a can of tuna or something. They seemed quite desperate, as if it was starvation stakes; there were lots of shiny cans everywhere, and they wanted them.
    Then, of all things, an ice-cream van turned up one day. It was just like Blackpool, with the old ding-dong chimes. He must have traveled at least a hundred miles to get there; perhaps he'd heard that 7 Troop was in town.
    We spent a week planning and preparing. A character called Gilbert, the snake man, was brought in to show us all the different types of snakes-the ones that were poisonous and the ones that weren't.
    "There are two ways of dealing with a bite," he said.
    "The first is to dress the wound and try to get all antidote. The second is to lie very still in your sleeping bag and wait for death."
    We were standing around in a circle while this boy brought different snakes out of their bags. All of a sudden a particularly mean-looking fucker with a deep hatred of men in shorts and flip-flops hurled itself out of Gilbert's hands and was off, spitting venom in all directions.
    Within seconds all the rough-tough S.A.S men were hanging off trees and vehicles or sprinting toward the perimeter fence.. This was one very pissed-off snake; when it couldn't find a man to attack, it started to eat one of the vehicles, trying to sink its fangs into the tires.
    I had no idea how it was recaptured and put back in its bag; my view was a bit restricted from the roof of the ice-cream van a hundred meters away.
    The locals were starting to pester us good style now. It happened almost every time we went into a place where Westerners had been working; people would be expecting us to give them stuff, and if we didn't, they hassled and poked. They were given so much aid from so many sources that in the end it wasn't something that they were grateful for; it was just something that they expected as of right.
    The best aid foreign nations could have been giving them was education, to show them how to be productive themselves. Instead all we did was give them six hundred tons of wheat to salve our consciences. But in doing so, we created a nation of takers, who were not contributing to their own country, their own economy.
    We decided one day that we'd all had enough of being hassled and told,
    "Give me, give me, give me." Out came the hexy blocks, which we cut into little cubes.
    These were then smeared with jam and arranged on plates. Then, every time we were crowded, we fucked them off with our confections.
    They grabbed the stuff greedily and threw it down their necks.
    After about three crunches the taste of the hexy got to them and they spit it out with much gagging and choking. Nobody came back for seconds.
    Being free fall troop and waiting to get into our stage of the game and try to defeat all these radars, we were very much left to our own devices. We spent our days doing our own weapon training and just generally mincing around. When a squadron went away like this, weights turned up, punch bags started hanging from trees. People would do a run around the compound and then a routine with the apparatus; a circuit might be two minutes on the bag, two minutes' skipping, two minutes' rest, then two minutes on the weights, two minutes' skipping, two minutes' rest. You'd do maybe ten circuits and then warm down with another run.
    The other troops started to disappear off to do their tasks, and then it was decided that we should go with 9 Troop, who were up in a hill range called the Tsodilo hills. We set off in vehicles for the two- or three-day mooch across the Kalahari desert.
    Tracks ran across vast, empty, flat plains of scrub and dust.
    On the second day we came to a crossroads of tracks in the middle of thousands of acres of sandy scrubland.
    A little mud hut had a sign up saying it was,a cafe. The proprietor, an old fellow in his eighties, was mincing around on a hammock. We went in, but there were no tables or chairs, or, come to that, electricity. just a few bottles of Fanta on a shelf and a sign that must have been at least twenty years old, advertising Bulmer's cider from Hereford. Once we'd felt the temperature of the Fanta bottles we left them where they were but negotiated with the old boy for the sale of the sign, which we mounted on the dashboard of the 110.
    We got to 9 Troop's position on the afternoon of the third day.
    It was weird terrain, totally flat and then these mountains that rose abruptly out of the ground. I wasn't the only one to notice that they had an eerie air about them.
    "I did this area for geography A level," Tiny said.
    "There are thousands of rock paintings in and around the hills, scenes of eland and giraffes painted by desertdwelling Bushmen hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago.
    When, we arrived,.most of the troop were out on the mountain.
    There was a bit of a flap on as someone had injured his back and was being carried down to the camp. It was Toby. Slaphead was a veteran of the Falklands, Northern Ireland, and countless fights up north as a policeman, all without injury; now he had jumped eighteen 'riches off a rock and damaged his back so badly he 'was on a stretcher.
    He was in fearsome pain and had to have more morphine.
    Tiny yelled, "Not yet, wait!" to the medic and went running to his bergen. He came back with a camera and said, "Okay, you can do it now."
    Slaphead's face was screwed up in pain as he got the good news.
    The picture would go into B Squadron's interest room as soon as we got back.
    Eno by now was on the radio sending the Morse message that we needed a helicopter. As usual, he was Mr. Casual about the whole affair. He had been told one day by the police that his sister had been murdered; he just said, "I think I'd better go to London then." It wasn't that he didn't care; he just didn't get excited about anything.
    The weather started to change. The sky was thickening with dark clouds, and the wind was getting up; there was a smell of rain-wet earth. A storm was coming; this was worrying as it could affect a heli's chances of getting in. Slaphead had been stabilized, but he needed to be taken to a good hospital.
    His new KSBs (boots) had been taken off and were by the side of the stretcher. I knew he took the same boot size as I did, so I went up and said, "You won't be needing these anymore on this trip, will you?"
    Slaphead told me where to put the boots, and it wasn't on my feet.
    Things started to settle down; a heli was being arranged, and Eno was still on the radio standing by. Then another drama started.
    It was about two hours before last light, and there was no sign of Joe Ferragher and Alan, the new troop officer. The troop were just starting to mutter dark thoughts about the incompetence of new ruperts when somebody spotted a flashing light on the mountain. We got our binos out and could just see somebody on a ledge. No one knew for sure what it was, but everybody knew something was wrong.
    Eno was back on the radio again, leaning back on a canvas chair, cigarette in one hand, Morse key in the other. Three or four of Mountain Troop got radios and their kit and drove over to the mountain.
    As all this was happening, the heli turned up. He couldn't do anything about the blokes on the mountain; he couldn't get that far in.
    The weather was still threatening to give us a storm, and the sides of the tents were blowing out. Most of 7 Troop felt quite helpless as we didn't have the skill to climb; we just waited to see if any more help was needed.
    "Might as well have a brew and sort our kit out," was Charlie's answer to the problem. We had been there for about three hours by now and hadn't even got our kit off the wagons because of all the excitement.
    We could hear on the radio that Ivor was now with them on the mountain and needed everyone's help.
    About five feet seven inches and wiry, Ivor was a mountain goat from somewhere up north. He came from an armored regiment and had been at the embassy ana the Falklands. He wasn't one to mince his words on the net.
    "Joe is dead," he said. "The Boss is going to be taken down by Harry and George. This is what I want to happen. ', He wanted everyone to get as far up the mountain as possible and meet him coming down. How he was going to do it we had no idea, but we started up toward him.
    The storm now looked as if it was just teasing us.
   There was a little rain but nothing to worry about, apart from time. The heli didn't want to leave at night; we had to get a move on or it would leave without Joe, Slaphead being the main priority now.
    It was about two hours before Ivor got to us. He was in shit state; he was sweating heavily and covered in grime, he had cuts on his elbows and knees, and his face and arms were bruised from the effort of moving a very heavy Joe off the mountain. He had put Joe into a mountain stretcher and then started to absell down. It was a major feat of strength to kick himself and Joe over the overhangs. He should have got a medal that day. We took the body the rest of the way down. The heli then had two bodies on board instead of the one they had expected.
    We learned that a device used to attach a person to the rock face had given way, and Joe had gone bouncing down the hill until he got stopped by his next "safety."
    The Ross had climbed down to Joe and tried to save him, but it was too late. However, a casualty is not dead until he is confirmed dead, so he tried anyway.
    Charlie had got hold of the troop's rum that Joe was in charge of and said, "He isn't going to need this now.
    Let's have a drink on the old fucker."
    So we had a drink on him and hoped that the rupert was okay. He was quite shaken up. It is not the best of introductions to have your troop senior die on you and then maybe think that everyone blames you-which they didn't. It seemed that life on a mountain didn't suit him; about three months later he moved to our troop.
    Maybe it was the thought of all that ice cream.
    We were sitting under a baobab tree, a weird, muscled sculpture with branches like roots sprouting white, starlike flowers, drinking the rum and talking about the locals. "The Bushmen have great respect for the baobab," Tiny said. "Pick its flower, they say, and a lion will eat you. These hills are sacred to them, too. It's taboo to kill an animal that lives here."
    One of 9 Troop said, "Joe was out in a one-ten yesterday and'shot an antelope for us to eat. Apparently his death came as no surprise to the locals."
    As I lay in my biwi bag that night, looking past a bright moon to a gleaming Milky Way, I was a believer.
    I had never been particularly worried about dying. We all had to die at some stage; I just wanted it to be nice and quick; I didn't want it to be painful. I didn't have any big religious notions about death.
    I liked to think there was something after it, a place or dimension where I'd find all the information I'd ever wanted to know, such as what a Love Heart tasted like and all the other great secrets of life.
    That was the only advantage that I could see.
    I'd always been sure that I was going to die early in life anyway.
    I'd always had that feeling, ever since I was a kid. I'd always thought, I'm going to live till I'm about fifty-five, and that will be it. Didn't stop me being a sucker when the pension salesman came around, though.
    When mates died, I was upset initially, but after that it was okay. It was more upsetting if they died in a drastIC way, but the fact that they were dead, there were no problems with that. What was horrible and a real pisser was if people died or got severely injured and impaired for the rest of their lives for no reason. It was always unfortunate when people died during training. We'd lost quite a lot of people through drowning in the jungle; river crossings were the number one killer in the Regiment. Sometimes I thought, Hell, we're practicing things that are going to be dangerous enough on the day, so why tempt Providence?
    But if that attitude was allowed to prevail, we would lose all the advantages of realistic training.
    Joe had to be taken into South Africa to get a British Airways flight out, and this would unfortunately entail a delay. Barry, the storeman at Squadron HQ, hosed down one of the six-foot tables, sorted Joe out on it and cleaned him up, then got all the meat out of the freezer and stored him inside it instead; he then organized a huge feast to eat all the meat before it spoiled. When all the arrangements had been made, they got Joe in a motor and drove him into South Africa.
    From there he was put in a coffin and flown home.
    Meanwhile we had work to do. We were flown in a I up to the shuttle service of little Islander aircraft h Okavango, a vast expanse of lakes and river systems that borders on the Caprivi strip, the area of drama with South African forces. The plan was for us to join forces with 6 Troop, who'd been up there for weeks.
    The average contact in that sort of bush, even though it looked pretty sparse, was about five meters. Everybody was carrying his personal choice of weapon that he considered would be good at such close ranges-SLR, 203 and M16, and shotgun. Mine was a 203.
    The BDF were armed with the Galil, Israel's answer to the AK47.
    It was a very good weapon, simple to use and to clean, and with a simple and reliable action. People could learn it quickly, but its one drawback was its weight; it was a bit heavy for the troops of many of the countries that used it.
    The other equipment that we'd taken with us was minimal-as ever, only as much as we could get into a bergen. As in the jungle, we'd need just two sets of clothes-a dry set and a wet set. As well as that I took a poncho, in my case an Australian shelter sheet that crumpled up really small, a hammock, and an American poncho liner, an excellent bit of kit similar to a very thin nylon duvet. The rest was food, water, bullets, ahd a bit of first-aid kit.
    We were there to practice a two-troop camp attack in the swamps.
    The camp we were training on was an alligator farm i'n the middle of nowhere.
    Members of 6 Troop went out and did the recces, spent a couple of days putting OPs on it, and got all the information back.
    We were living on a little spit of land within the swamps, among beds of fast-growing papyrus. Over the years, as the hippos had come up onto these little islands, they had obligingly created perfect landing slips for our Geminis. We could drag the inflatables onto the spit and conceal ourselves and our equipment in the reeds and operate from there.
    There was no way anyone would find us.
    Everybody was cammed up and carrying belt kit and weapons as we climbed into the boats and set off into the darkness. One boat was up ahead as lead scout.
    Aboard were two people-one driving, one navigating.
    The cox was Solid Shot. As a member of Boat Troop he knew what he was doing. He would just let the motor run on its own revs and guide it through the reeds and obstructions. It was amazing how little noise was made by the motors.
    The other member was the Boat Troop Boss, the rupert who passed in my Selection. He was from some armored recce unit and was quite funny and likable. He would be checking with Solid Shot on navigation.
    Solid Shot was soon to be a fellow officer. When we got back from this trip, he was going to be commissioned as Captain Solid Shot, so he wasn't so thick after all. We were all very happy for him.
    We were moving along at little more than tick-over pace; the Yamaha is remarkably quiet if you're just trogging along without revving it up. As we got closer to the target, the engines were cut off, and we started paddling.
    Sandy and I were up at the front of the second boat.
    With his, blond Brillo pad hair under a very large bush hat he looked like one of the Flowerpot Men. Our job was to cover the first boat, which we could just about see up ahead in the darkness. We wanted lots of distance between boats in case of a contact, but at the same time we had to keep in visual touch. If we started losing contact, it would all go to a gang fuck.
    We were mooching along, no sound except for the occasional slurp of a paddle in the water, when suddenly, from near the lead boat, we heard what sounded like an explosion. It was followed by another, and another, and then we could see the foaming white of violently disturbed water.
    The lead Gemini stopped, and so did we. The whole two troops were now just floating in the water and being taken slowly downstream. We then heard what sounded like the roar of a steam engine.
    We heard the sound again, and this time it was getting closer, a deep, outraged bellow that told us we were about to be thrown out of the party.
    Next thing we heard was "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" from the lead boat as a massive head and shoulders reared out of the water and took a bite into the rubber. Luckily the inflatables were constructed in sections, so that if one did get a puncture, it was only that section that went down.
    There,was an ominous sound'of rushing water, and my eyes strained in the darkness to see the threat. An ugly head arrowed toward us, erupting into an explosion of foam and jaws the size of a Mini.
    Sandy said, "Fucking hell!" and everybody in the boat paddled so fast a man could have water-skied behind us.
    As the deep, honking voices receded behind us, I realized I was drenched-whether from swamp water, exertion, or sheer terror I didn't know.
    The snorting and thrashing of the hippos would have compromised us, so we had no alternative but to turn back and try to find another route in.
    Our time on the target would be severely cut as a result, because we had to be in and away again before first light, needing darkness to get back to our hide position, the troop L.U.P.
    We eventually got to the area of the attack. The blokes from the lead boat jumped on others, and we dragged the bitten vessel along behind. It was the first time I'd been in an attack where people couldn't stop laughing. It had been a ridiculous scenario: two troops of the world's finest, screaming along the Okavango waterways armed to the teeth, going in to do an aggressive act, stopped in their tracks by a hippo that had the hump.
    We had a very interesting few more weeks in Botswana, during which I learned the Afrikaans for "Let's get the hell out of here!" and the Botswanan for "Look at that springbok run."
    At the end we had a big barbecue back at the squadron RP. It was as much a drink for Joe as anything else, and during the course of the night things were getting out of hand. A thunderflash (training grenade) came over the roof, then another. The locals were still shitting themselves about S.A.D.F incursions, and the explosions did not go down well.
    The SSM shouted, "That's enough. The next one who throws one gets R.T.U'D [returned to unit]."
    Two minutes later, BANG!
    The SSM went running around the area looking for the flash banger, but no one could be found. A few of us saw who he was but said nothing.
    The following morning the squadron O.C got everyone together. "You have until midday to come forward," he said. "If not, there will be no R and R, and from now on you will provide security with the Botswanans."
    We all knew who it was, but no one said a word.
    The O.C finished with the words "He has to make up his mind if he is a man or a mouse."
    The Botswanan Mouse was born. We got pissed off with the restrictions that were imposed on us as a result of this blokes irresponsible behavior and even more pissed off with him. He deserved to be R.T.U'D, but everyone had a strange and probably mistaken sense of loyalty. He was flapping good style, however, and quite rightly so.
    No one ever exposed the identity of the mouse. Every group of people has someone they don't like or want to work with. When we returned to Hereford, as well as Slaphead's pictures in the interest room, there were several cartoons of the mouse, and he continued to reap what he had sown.
    M n entire squadron of the Special Air Service was 14 on the team" in the UK for six to nine months, on permanent standby. After a buildup of four to six weeks, which included training with the squadron still on, the commitment was handed over; it might have been only eighteen months since the blokes were last on the tearr, but there was always something new to learn.
    The team consisted of two subteams, Red and Blue, each with an assault group and sniper group. Having two teams meant that two incidents could be covered at once; there were also contingency plans for other squadrons to produce teams if there were more than two incidents that had to be covered.
    The assaulters were the people with all the black kit on who go jumping out of helicopters and banging down doors; they tended to work in four-man teams, but this was flexible depending on the target. One of the assault groups was the M.O.E (method of entry) team, responsible for making up the explosive charges for the rest of the team to use.
    There was also a signals setup. As well as look after the team's equipment they had to provide comms from anywhere in the world, as there were also commitments overseas. As some of them were required to enter a target with the team, they trained alongside us.
    The medic carried the world's biggest trauma pack. If there was a man down, the firefight still had to go on; it was the medic's job to get in there and start getting some fluid into him and managing the trauma.
    Until everything went bang and an attack went in, the sniper group were the most important people. They were on the target, giving the rest of us real-time information. They, too, were trained as assaulters.
    The squadron HQ comprised the O.C, a major, and the SSM, a warrant officer, who were responsible for both teams.
    I found being on constant standby no more of a problem than it must be for a doctor; we were on call and we lived with it. We each had a bleeper and didn't go anywhere without it.
    Seven Troop was always part of the Red team, which was wonderful because the squadron HQ was next to the Blue. If there were any bone jobs to be done, the head shed would just nip next door; we were fifty meters away in our own hangar.
    First thing in the morning we'd meet up in the crew room. Some would have run in or have already done their training in the gym. It was a personal thing; no one ever told us to do it; however, the day we couldn't do our job because we had lacked the self-discipline to go and train, we'd be standing on Platform 4.
    Cycling was very popular at one stage, and some mornings it looked like the Tour de France coming into the main gate. I preferred to run in from my house, have a shower, then go and have a brew in the crew room.
    It had the look of a seventies-built school staff room, with a TV and magazines that were six months out of date, army soft chairs with horrible colored nylon covers, and mugs that were badly stained by coffee. It stank of stale tea, coffee, and cigarettes.
    One of us would go to the cookhouse in a Range Rover and pick up some tea in Norwegians and the packed lunches-brown paper bags that contained a typical school lunch of soggy rolls, Yorkie bar, and crisps. By eight o'clock we'd have eaten everything and would start discussing the day's training.
    "What are we doing today then, Gar?"
    Gar was in his mid-thirties, an ex-Green jacket, and had been in the Regiment for years. He was very experienced over the water and really switched on. Recently divorced, he was reliving his youth; he was immensely sociable, tailor-made for B Squadron. He wore Armani suits and jermyn Street shirts; even the sergeant major called him Champagne Charlie. At the same time, however, he was very sensible, and not the right bloke to get on the wrong side of. Everybody tried to be best mates with Gar; get in his bad books and you were in trouble.
    There was no messing about; he'd just sort you out on the spot.
    On 5 September 1972, eight men belonging to the Palestinian terrorist group Black September burst into a room in Munich housing eleven Israeli athletes. They shot two of them and held the others hostage, demanding the release of P.L.O prisoners held in Israel and members of the German Red Army Faction held in West Germany. They also wanted a plane to fly them to Cairo.
    The West German government, which had no specially trained counterterrorist forces, gave in to the terrorists' demands after a day of negotiations. They were flown in two helicopters to a military air base, and as they prepared to board the aircraft, army snipers opened fire. Visibility was bad, and the snipers were positioned too far away.
    The terrorists had time to blow up both helicopters, killing the nine Israelis.
    In order to avoid such a debacle in the LJK, the British government turned to the Regiment. A CRW (counter revolutionary warfare) wing was set up that would be responsible for training every member of the Regiment in counterterrorism techniques-among other things.
    CRW was still the continuity of the CT (close target) iding new equipment, training, and buildings. team, prov If there was no training requirement coming from CRW on a particular day-for example, going to see the London Underground, visiting an airport, or looking at major venues where heads of state were likely to meet-we would conduct our own.
    Instead of the head shed running things, one of the team would be put in charge: "Right, Harry B, you organize a day in the CQB house."
    The head shed could then spend time working alongside us.
    The sniper team would go to the ranges or train with the assaulters. I loved the ranges, especially in the summer. We used the PM, a 7.62 sniper rifle, and Lapua ammunition, made in Finland. The targets were "Hun heads"-just a picture of a head. We always went for head shots, for two reasons: Any terrorist with more than two brain cells would wear body armor if he had the opportunity, and there was always a chance that the players would be on drugs and therefore more pumped up. If they were shot in the body, they could be so wired to the moon that they would still come forward or start to kill the hostages. If they had their heads taken off, they'd drop.
    Within the Hun head targets was a circle, centered on the area of the nose. We'd start the session by firing just one round, at two hundred meters, as a confidence shot.
    Some would do it standing, some lying, but we'd all have to hit the circle, dead center. It made us more confident to know that the weapon kept its zero, even when it had been packed and put in the wagon; at an incident we wouldn't be able to test-fire our weapons, so we had to be sure.
    There would then be lots of moving target shoots as far away as six hundred meters, and a lot of OP training and urban sniper work.
    The development of a counterterrorist role led to a number of changes at Stirling Lines. The CQB building or "killing house" was constructed to enable us to train in hostage rescue and covert entry with live amen ' ' unition, and make entry at any level-anything from a four-man assault group to a complete team with vehicles and helicopters. It was a single-story bull ding with a center corridor and rooms leading off-large rooms, small rooms, connected rooms-with movable partitions and a whole range of furniture. It was up to the individual to arrange the furniture the way he wanted it and then put up any barricades.
    The smell of lead and gunfire seemed to cling to the walls. There were extractor fans, but they couldn't keep up with the amount of rounds fired. Even with the lights in the rooms fully on it was still fairly gloomy. Some rooms had bulletproof glass with little portholes so people could look in from outside or videotape us.
    It was my turn to organize a day in the CQB house.
    My team consisted of me, Dave, Fat Boy, and a new boy, straight from Selection, called Tim.
    "Let's do a three-man snatch," I said. "Fat Boy, go and sort the room out-I don't want you working up a sweat, do I?"
    He went off to arrange the furniture in the room and put up barricades for us to fight through and change the lighting in the room so we wouldn't know what to expect as we entered. He then went and sat down in the room as the hostage; the terrorists were simulated by Hun heads.
    We started to move to the door. It was always a difficult time, because there must be absolutely no noise; the object of the three-man snatch is to get so much surprise and speed on to the target that it's totally overwhelmed.
    Once we reached the door Dave and Tim placed the door charge; we were right up next to it to maintain the element of surprise when it went off. It was something that we practiced time and time again until we were used to being next to charges as they exploded.
    Everyone was right on top of one another, really tight up, weapon leaning over the shoulder of the next bloke, ready to burst in.
    When everything's quiet, the noise of the respirator sounds outrageous.
    I could hear my breath rasping in and out and was trying to slow down and breathe rhythmically to cut down the noise.
    I made sure my torch was working, my pistol wasn't going to fall out, and the weapons weren't banging together. As number one, once I was ready, I stood in position, safety catch off; the moment the door opened I could see into it and start to fire. I had my weapon in the shoulder, ready to go.- Tim and Dave were right up behind me.
    Forward and peripheral vision from inside the respirator is good; all my concentration was focused forward; all I could hear was the noise of my breathing.
    I could feel my face starting to get wet with sweat.
    The command was given on the net: "Hello, all stations, I have control.
    Stand by, stand by, go!"
    As the second "stand by" was given, Tim took the door in. I was straight into the room to take on the first threat I saw. Reacting to the situation in a room is not so much a matter of drill as experience and training. The terrorists won't be sitting or standing where they ideally should be; they are not playing our game. It could mean going left or right, or I might have to fight through a barricade to get to a target. It could be dark, or the lights might go out just as I entered.
    No more than a foot behind came Dave, the number two. He had to react to two different factors-me and the terrorists.
    As we entered, we were firing at the heads. Dave was on auto; I preferred to fire rapid single shots. It was a matter of personal choice.
    We were firing on the move, and the name of the game was to shoot until the target was dead. Because we were training and not dropping live bodies, I personally would fire until I could see enough holes in the target, and then I'd know that it was dead. Each man might get through twenty-five rounds every time he went in, more than he probably would in a real rescue.
    I moved closer to the target, still firing. I had both eyes open so I could see everything that was going on.
    The last thing any terrorist would see was my torchlight blaring down on him.
    Once Dave was in and firing he might have to move around the room to protect the hostage and give cover for Tim to do his stuff. He came in with no weapons, apart from a pistol in a holster; he was shouting through his respirator at the hostage: "Up, up, up! Move, move, move!" as he picked him off the floor by whatever he could get his hands onollar, hair, head, anythingand. very aggressively dragged him from the room. There was no time to mess around. For a snatch to succeed it has to be all over in a matter of seconds, and the only reason it is so quick is because of the months-and in most cases years-of practice.
    All four of us came back into the room for a debrief.
    "A bag of shite!" Fat Boy said, smoothing down his ruffled hair after being manhandled by Tim. "Andy, the reason I put that target where I did was that I knew you'd go for the obvious, when in fact to the right of you was the real and immediate threat. As you came in, you should have seen that target straightaway. You fucked it up. Do it again."
    I was more than happy to practice it again. If I had missed the immediate threat in real life, I would probably have been killed.
    After practicing the same snatch again, we changed positions so that every time there was somebody in the room and three men outside.
    After each session we had another debrief, perhaps watching a videotape of the proceedings so there could be no bone excuses, and drinking tea that tasted of lead because of the five thousand or more rounds that were fired in the building each day. The lead fumes get in the throat and nose and linger all day.
    We trained for stoppages. It's not the most pleasant situation in the world for nothing to happen when you go to fire your weapon at a terrorist five meters away who's bringing his weapon up at you. There is no time to sort it out; you've just got to keep both eyes on the target and draw your pistol. You have to be quick or you are dead.
    The reason we all went into the room as the hostage was so that we could give an honest account of what we heard and saw from the other side and gain confidence in the other team members. It takes total trust to sit there, sometimes in the dark, feelin the blast from the.
    MP5s as these people burst in firing live ammunition all around you.
    Given the high number of rounds that are fired every day-more than by the rest of the British Army put together-casualties are very low. All training, however, must be as realistic as possible.
    It got to the stage where we were so confident with each other that we did quite outrageous things while training. There was a fellow called Mel from B Squadron, at that time a member of CRW, who was so confident in the other blokes that he would stand between two targets in a dark room while they came in with pistols and torches and fired at the Hun heads beside him.
    Mel was a bit of a fruit. He was trying to get us to wear a new type of body armor, but we were very skeptical about its effectiveness.
    In the end he said, "Look, I'll prove it works." He put the kit on, loaded a shotgun with solid shot, and told one of the blokes to shoot him.
    It took him down, but he was alive. Mel felt he was vindicated.
    On another team we were looking at some new Kevlar helmets. Mel was sure that they were a good bit, of kit, but we were saying, "We don't mind'the extra weight and discomfort of having this Kevlar helmet on, but will it take the shot?"
    Mel put the helmet on and said to Mick, the 'ap-slapper, "Listen, Kevlar's a wonderful material. Shoot me in the head with a nine millimeter."
    Mick said, "Fuck off, behave yourself and have a brew."
    There were no other volunteers, so the event didn't happen. About three days later the Regiment got a letter from the manufacturers asking what we'd thought of the dummy helmet. Apparently what they'd sent us was just a mock-up to demonstrate its weight and the shape.
    There wasn't an ounce of Kevlar in it. There was talk that a shot to the head wouldn't have made much difference to Mel anyway.
    We'd practice procedures for Man Down. If one of our blokes was shot, we couldn't do anything about it immediately; the only thing that was going to save him was our taking that room or area as quickly as we could. If we stopped to sort him out, we'd all die; we must still carry out the task and, now that he was down, also carry out his job as well.
    We trained for every eventuality-and trained and trained and trained.
    There are so many different types of buildings, from high-rise blocks to caravans, and all sorts of scenarios in which people could be held.
    Getting into an aircraft, for example, is a lot different from getting into an embassy; clearing a ship is a lot different from clearing a hotel. For a start, the ammunition's got to be different. If we started firing ball ammunitionsolid, full metal jacket rounds-it would be wanging around all over the place as it ricocheted off the metal structure; therefore it has to be able to fragment once it hits metal.
    We, looked at all sorts of vehicles, from coaches to jumbo jets.
    We practiced getting up to an aircraft, then making an entry without anybody knowing. The counterterrorist team has to know how an aircraft pressurizes, how it depressurizes, how the system can be overridden, how to open the escape chutes.
    People came up with new ideas all the time. One of the team once said for a joke, "How about trying to climb up the tail and somersault down into the cockpit?"
    We did.
    There was progression every time a team took over.
    The techniques never stayed the same because what we were trying to get into and defeat never stayed the same; the technology always moved forward.
    As well as the assault and sniper groups practicing among themselves, the whole team would get together and train for the different "options."
    One of these was called the I.A (immediate action), a plan that the 3 i/c had to organize. He had to get all the information available and be able to give orders to one of the teams thirty minutes after they arrived; the O.C meanwhile would be planning the deliberate options.
    The I.A was continually updated and changed as more information became available. If there was a drama and the terrorists started to massacre all the hostages, the I.A would go in as prepared as it could be.
    One of the teams was always on standby on the I.A; within seconds it could be stood to, ready to go in on the target. Helicopters and Range Rovers were used to get the team on target as quickly as possible.
    On days when we conducted our own training 'we would try to be finished by midafternoon. There were no breaks; we just cracked on until it was done. Then it would be back to the team hangar, clean the weapons, drink more tea, ensure everything was ready to go in case of a call out, and close down. Some of the blokes would then go training or go home and make an attempt at fixing their leaky guttering. Those of us with any sense would go downtown for a brew and talk about how close we were to our football pools syndicate winning on Saturday.
    Another commitment for the team was to be ready at a moment's notice to go over the water to reinforce the troop. I used to enjoy this; it got us away for a few days or even weeks.
    Sometimes if there was only a small number required, it was a case of first come, first served. There was a callout on a Saturday morning; I jumped into my aging Renault and screamed off to work; my foot was right down to the floorboards, gunning the vehicle at speeds of up to 50 mph along the straight.
    I knew the Puma would be flying in to RP with the team who were going, and within ninety minutes we'd be in the province-as long as I got to the camp in the first place. As I approached the main bridge in town that crosses the river Wye, I had a bang, clipping a Mini Metro with my left-hand wing. The other driver insisted on doing all the paperwork, and there was no way I could run away or tell him who I was. just as we finished exchanging particulars, I saw the Puma lift off from the camp.
    The CQB house was always on the list of tourist attractions at Stirling Lines, and visiting VIPs were generally given a demonstration of firepower and entry techniques. All chief constables were given demos so that they understood the Regiment's capabilities, as were the many other organizations that needed to know the type of product we could supply.
    Sometimes demos became a pain in the arse. It was okay doing things that needed to be done, but instead of being the counterterrorist team, we sometims became the demo team.
    The teams were becoming more and more fed up so that instead of training, they were jumping through hoops for all and sundry during the demo season. We didn't mind doing it for customs and excise and police firearms teams-but teams of rugby players or doctors and nurses? Even the fitters who were laying carpet in one of the messes had a morning out; the joke was that someone was obviously getting his front room done for nothing. It came to the point where the only people left in Hereford that we hadn't done a demo for were the Women's Institute.
    The guests would ask some really daft questions.
    "How much do your gloves cost?" I was once asked.
    "One hundred and fourteen pounds," I said, plucking a figure out of thin air. "Give or take a few bob."
    It got to the stage where we started to stitch each other up to relieve the boredom. One of the better ones was during the pallet displays, for which all the vehicles were moved out of the hangar and the weapons and equipment laid out on show. A member of each part of the team would then talk about his kit and task.
    I was doing the talk on the assaulters and had sorted out my pallet. I had all the clothing, body armor, abseil kit, the lot, and the weapons that any member of the assault group would be taking, and there was Fat Boy, who was dressed up in the kit. As I talked about a weapon, he would bring it to bear.
    Everybody's looking; it's all rather impressive. Fat Boy drew his pistol, then the shotgun, and there were knives and all sorts coming out all over the place.
    Earlier in the day I had gone over to the sniper team's pallet when they weren't around and had left a tennis ball on their display.
    When Eno started talking about the different ammunition, it would be good to see him get out of it. When I came back, I didn't realize I'd been stitched up myself.
    I carried on with the waffle and saw an old boot in the middle of my display. Everybody was rolling up on the other pallets. The Regiment head shed were giving me bad looks; they were not impressed.
    I moved on to point out the weapons, and there was a plastic water pistol. I couldn't do jack shit about it.
    Luckily nobody asked what it was for because I would have been obliged to pick it up and say, "It's to shoot people with," and give them a squirt.
    One memorable day the Prince and Princess of Wales and the Duchess of York came down to Hereford. The purpose of the visit was familiarization with the Regiment, so if the shit hit the fan for them, they'd know what to expect when the boys came screaming through to rescue them. But also it was a fun thing, a good day out for us. A day like that was good for them, too; they could let their hair down away from the press, and without having to shake hands, pick up flowers, or make small talk with Jonathan Dimbleby.
    One of the demos that we gave them was how we could covertly enter a building and get to the hostages in total darkness.
    They were sitting in bne of the large CQB rooms listening to an explanation of how we trained: "As you can see, we can control the light levels, from full to total darkness."
    The lights were now off.
    "Sometimes the team has to operate in total darkness because there may be no power or the terrorists have control of the lighting."
    We were going in wearing NVGS. It was like looking at a negative with a green tinge. The goggles give a weird perspective; if you go to grab something, you might be out by an inch, so it takes constant practice.
    Going up a step, we'd have to exaggerate our movements to make sure we didn't trip up; to walk, we'd place a heel gently and run the outside of the heel all the way along the outside of the foot, then gently place the boot down, and then go with the next one.
    Sometimes I couldn't hear what I was doing; I was trying to breathe shallowly; even the noise of the NVG, a tiny whine, sounded fearsome because it was right next to me.
    Nice and gently, taking our time, we slowly moved toward the table where they were sitting, all the time thinking, What if we screw up?
    We're supposed to be the smoothy clockwork operators.
    The lights went on, and standing over the royal visitors was an assault group in full kit carrying MP5SDs, trying to breathe slowly and look casual. The Royals particularly liked that one.
    We staged mock sieges to rehearse the Royals in the procedures we would go through in the event of a terrorist attack. The exercises were very realistic, and they didn't always go according to plan.
    During a demo of a building assault, the Royal party was aboard Range Rovers as part of the attacking force, watching others who were fast-roping from a helicopter onto the roof. The Agustas were zooming in, lots of bangs, lots of firing, the big mass assault on the embassy.
    Suddenly, as the helicopter lifted away, a bloke in black kit tumbled out and fell fifty feet onto the roof, his body being hidden from view by a three-foot-high perimeter wall.
    The blokes said they heard Prince Charles say, "Oh, my God, a man's been killed!"
    Almost immediately what should have been a dead body jumped to his feet, dusted himself off, and continued with his task. Everybody looked at one another, openmouthed.
    Later that day the Regiment became trendsetters. Diana was going to be in a room where flashbangs were going to go off. Flashbangs are noisy things; they are designed to disorientate you and make you want to curl up in a ball and wait for your mum to come and get you.
    As it went off, she turned and one of the maroons hit her in the head.
    There was the smell of burned hair and lacquer, and our army pensions suddenly didn't look any too healthy.
    The only lasting damage was to her hair, which was badly burned.
    Days later the press and Royal fashion watchers noted that Diana was suddenly sporting a new, shorter hairdo. There could be no comeback.
    They had signed a disclaimer that was now in B Squadron's inter In Tsodilo Hills, Botswana, 1986.
    Members of 6 and 7 Troop in Okavango, 1986. mil FN 9MM pistol, stripped. FNITRH Pictures Heckler & Koch 9MM MP5SD.
    Heckler Koch Pictures est room: "No member of B squadron will be committed to the Tower if any of the demos go wrong."
    Nobody-least of all the other members of the Regiment-could believe what had happened to the bloke who fell from the helicopter, and it was only in the club later that we learned the truth about Superman. Unknown to anybody but the team in the heli, he had hidden himself behind the wall.
    Then, at the right moment, the lads in the heli had ejected a dummy dressed in black kit.
    As well as all the training that was done for once we were on the target, we had to practice the call-out system and moving to an incident; we had frequent exercises enabling the different agencies and personalities involved in any hostage incident to practice their bits.
    Mrs. Thatcher had long been a fan of the Regiment.
    After refusing to allow the government to give in to the terrorists' demands during the embassy siege, she had personally sent in the team to bring it to an end.
    She might as well have had a bed space down in Hereford; she always seemed to be there. I respected her nononsense approach, and she laughed at the jokes. She might have been the only one walking around the camp wit I a andbag, but she was as tough as any man when it came to the crunch. She was in the CQB house once when we burst in and pumped live rounds into targets either side of her. One of her aides curled up into a ball.
    Maggie looked at him and snapped, "Get up, you fool."
    There was a lot of liaison with different units of the police. We did major exercises where everybody was involved, from the Prime Minister down, because everybody had to be tested. It was no good having all the soldiers-the coal face workers-practicing their techniques and practicing cooperation with other organizations, if the people who were sitting up there in C.O.B.R (Cabinet Office briefing room) listening to all the information and making decisions weren't practiced, too. So we'd do exercises where C.O.B.R would take command and direct operations from a bunker under Whitehall, the idea being to put Mrs. Thatcher and her team and everyone else down the chain under as much pressure as possible.
    There had been a big exercise a couple of years before in the States, and some of the Regiment went over as guests to observe. The incident was of national importance involving the National Security Council, the presidential committee that commits the troops. But the problem was, the council didn't actually assemble to join in the exercise. There was a debrief afterward, at which one of the Regiment blokes stood up and said, "The exercise was excellent; all the different organizations worked together and any little problems are now ironed out. However, where was the President?" It was ident and his advisers who had to make the decithe Pres sions, and they had to be getting hit with the problems exactly the same as everybody else.
    In the UK everybody from the Prime Minister down was hit with the problem at the same time as we were and had to make decisions. So it wasn't just the S.A.S going in to kick ass; it was everybody working together toward the same aim-a negotiated surrender. The last thing any of us wanted was to start putting charges on buildings and go screaming through shooting people-or, even worse, getting shot at. It's dangerous.
    Nobody's jumping up and down with excitement to go and do that sort of stuff; he might be killed. However, if it's got to be done, okay, that's a fair one, off you go, and if the people in command, up to government level, have practiced alongside those at the sharp end, then at least the blokes are happy that the decision has been taken by people with experience.
    During one tour I was on the thirty-minute team. I was in town shopping when I got a call on my bleeper. By now I had a 250 cc Yamaha; I took it steady going over the bridge this time. As I rode in, all the hangar doors were open and vehicles were moving to the ammo bunker to load up.
    There would be maximum activity as blokes were loading their ops bags into the wagons, which held everything an assaulter could wish for.
    Everything was laid out behind the wagons ready to go at ahy time.
    Once everyone had loaded up we moved into the t:rew room to find out what was going on. We were all eating our crisps apart from Slaphead, who saved his during the week for his kids. For some reason they always seemed to be the most horrible flavors like Prawn cocktail.
    Maybe the army had a deal with Smiths or the head chef had a sense of humor.
    The SSM came into the crew room and said, "About an hour ago there was a call out for four men, including the second-in-command, to go over the water. We've just received another call, Andy. I want you to be thirdin-command on it."
    He gave us a brief.
    "The Israeli trade commission was. holding a conference at grid six-three-two-four-five-six, map sheet onethree-five. This morning the Islamic Jihad got into the building and is holding hostages. We are stood to, waiting for the word to move. The O.C and his group have already moved by one-zero-nine (Agusta helicopter).
    Steve is waiting with the second one-zero-ninei for the second-in-command and sniper commander. The rest of us will wait for the go."
    My chest felt tight as we were driven to the heli pad; in the normal course of events I wouldn't have been tasked with the 3 i/c's job until at least my next tour. I felt honored but daunted. I didn't want to fuck up.
    The second wave of slime (Intelligence Corps personnel) were waiting for us by the 109. They were an integral part of any operation ever since the Prince' s Gate siege had demonstrated the value of good and accurate intelligence. During the lead up to the actual assault, specialists from M15 had been tasked with drilling holes in the walls and inserting tiny microphones and cameras to gain a detailed picture of who was where inside the building. But the information about the construction of the building was piss poor, and the walls turned out to be too thick for the probes to penetrate. The result was that although the blokes had a model of the construction of the building, they did not know exactly where the terrorists were.
    Since then the Regiment had collated a massive database on computer that included such essential information as the thicknesses of walls and doors in buildings that were possible terrorist targets and the designs of all military and civilian aircraft. The computer was portable, so wherever an incident occurred, we could take it with us and access the information. If we called up a certain hotel, for example, we'd get a 3D image of the interior on the screen.
    Intelligence gathered on the numbers and location of people inside the building could then be added as it came to hand. Possible methods of entry could also be suggested to the computer, which would then plot the best method of moving through the building. If the design of the building was not on the database, we could punch in details such as the construction of the outside walls, the number of windows, and the location of various rooms. The computer would then "design" the interior and provide a probability factor for accuracy, altering both as more information was added. It seemed the slime had every map, drawing, and picture of every ship, aircraft, and building in existence.
    I liked going in the heli with Steve until he started to talk about squash. He was mad on the sport, and to make it worse, he was good at it. Squash was very popular in the Regiment; at lunchtime the courts looked like the scene at a major tournament.
    We arrived at the location just outside Liverpool, a large private park with its own massive mansion house; from the air I could see lakes and well-manicured lawns.
    We landed alongside the other 109. One of the slime was there to take us to the holding area.
    "It's not as good as we would want, but it will do," he said.
    On the way there we passed scores of police, fire, and ambulance crews, all with their vehicles and their own jobs to do. The holding area turned out to be two large rooms in an old outbuilding that had been taken over and used as incident control. The rooms were more or less derelict, with concrete floors and cobwebs at the joins of the walls and a damp, musty smell of cat's piss, but at least there was electricity.
    In one corner were a couple of bogs with high cisterns and rusty metal chains.
    The rooms must both have been about twenty-five meters by twenty; it was a building cut in half with a center wall and two doors.
    The first priority was to meet up with jack, the squadron O.C. He was easy to spot-very tall, very wide, and with a nose that would have put General de Gaulle's in the shade.
    "This is the briefing area," he said. "Next door will be the admin area. The I.A vehicles will be placed on that hard standing to the right; everything else on that grass area there."
    Nobody else would be allowed to park near the ops vehicles, and the area would be kept clear of all clutter.
    In the briefing area the slime and signals advance parties were sorting everything out. There was a long line of six-foot tables on which were boards that would soon have pictures of the target plus the X rays (terrorists) and Yankees (hostages).
    Plans of the building were being pinned up as more information was given by the police. Steve and Jerry, the other pilot, did the sensible thing: got some tea and talked squash while they waited for their support team to arrive.
    "Let's go to the main incident room and get permission to go forward and see the target," I said.
    I took a walk to the main building with the O.C and Bob, the sniper team commander. Bob was the first member of the Regiment I'd ever seen, in Crossmagien.
    He had since become troop sergeant.
    It seemed that the mansion had been renovated and turned into a conference center much the same as the target, which was about a kilometer away. It was very plush with deep carpets, beautiful wood, and leather furniture and a fine central staircase. The scene put me in mind of a place that a film company had taken over.
    All the Gucci furniture had been moved to the side, and there were wires fixed to the floor with masking tape and running up the staircases, telephones ringing, policemen and women rushing around, and, like us, people in civilian clothes with ID cards pinned to their jackets.
    Every sector had its own little cordon. To come out of our holding area cordon and into another, we had to go through a police checkpoint. The slime had pinned ID cards to us. Within the main building there were other places that we needed other clearances to go into. It was chaos; everything was still getting jacked up.
    The O.C introduced us to a woman police officer who was one of the incident controllers. She called the forward control point and said,
    "Our friends are on their way down to see you."
    I returned to the briefing area with Bob and Jack and saw the two pilots. Squash talk had finished now and they were looking at some air photography that had just come in. Steve had decided to get his pipe out and slowly kill everyone. Each time he left it the thing would go out, so he had to relight it, causing clouds of smoke to form above him.
    The squadron O.C and I got a radio each and did a quick roadie's sound check-"One two, one two"-to each other and moved off toward the inner cordon. All the radios were secure comms, so no one else could listen on our net.
    We must have been stopped and checked three times at different points along the route. Once there we wanted to get as close as possible to the target. The O.C wanted to start thinking about the deliberate options, how he was going to get his teams on target and what he wanted to happen when they were there. On these phases we had the advantage over the terrorists.
    Bob was looking for the best places to put his snipers.
    They needed to be as far away as possible for concealment but close enough to play the kind of detail that was going to be required.
    For my part, I was looking for the best Way to get the team in and control the target thirty minutes after they arrived, which was the 3 i/c's job.
    We got to the control point, a group of gray police Portakabins, each with a black-and-white checked line around it. It had been raining, and our shoes were muddy. I tried to scrape most of it off as we entered.
    The Portakabin was pretty spartan inside and freezing cold, despite an electric two-bar fire-no taxpayers' money used extravagantly here. The place smelled of coffee, cigarettes, and the stink of burned dust when an electric fire is first turned on. The windows were steamed up; people were wiping them so they could see out.
    Every time somebody moved Portakabin rocked backward and forward; it hadn't been stabilized yet.
    Inside were the negotiators and the world's supply of policemen.
    The areas were pointed out to us on a sketch map, and then our escort turned up to take us as far as the nearest police sniper.
    The boy was well and truly pissed off. It was cold and wet, and he was lying in the mud with only a roll mat for insulation.
    "I've been waiting to be stood down for the last hour," he said.
    "What have you seen?"
    "Not a thing. When we arrived, all the curtains were closed, and there's been no movement anywhere."
    I said, "If the curtains are the same as the ones in the main house, we won't be able to see much tonight either."
    We stayed for about an hour, moving around the building as much as we could. I peered through my binos, having a good look at the target.
    It was a large, square Georgian building, with very clean-cut lines, much like the main mansion house itself. At the front were large double doors and windows on either side on the ground floor.
    Above that there were three windows on each of the next two stories.
    The roof was flat, with a little two-foot wall around the edge, but I could see two large skylights. It had a gravel driveway coming up to it, which opened up either side; around the back were outhouses and garages.
    A quick word with Steve-and the slime, and I would be ready. I walked back in the mud, wishing that I had brought my wellies with me.
    Standing near where the snipers would soon be positioned with a good view of the building, I did a quick appreciation of how I was going to implement the I.A.
    We would have to travel up to the target by vehicles because of the distance from the holding area. Once we got there, did we then move on foot to get on to the target? No; there was too much open space between the cover and the target. There were some woods and little hedgerows dotted around in this vast park area, but the nearest lot of cover was a row of buildings down at the bottom of the driveway.
    A run up from there would take too long, expose everybody, and possibly compromise the whole operation. So it would have to be one of two things: all in by helicopter or all in by vehicle, or a combination of the two.
    We had two 109s, which could take a maximum of six blokes each, which meant they couldn't get everybody on target. I wanted to hit as many parts of the building as I could at the same time so there was no time for the people inside to react, so-it was going to have to be a combination of vehicles and helicopters, depending on the latest information at the time.
    The first wagons were now arriving after their Formula One race up the Me. As everybody came in, he was told where the holding area was and where he was to lay out his equipment. Soon there was a long row of blankets in a straight line; on top of all of them was all the equipment out of all the vehicles. The blokes unwrapped the MP5SDs and Welrods from their weapon bags, together with axes, crowbars, hammers, shields, half shields, full body shields, ladder sections. The only wagon that was not emptied out was the M.O.E wagon, which was full of explosives and bits of wood and polystyrene for making up charges.
    They knew where they were going to sleep-the holding area. All they wanted to know now was where the bogs were and where they could get a brew.
    With the arrival of the team the briefing area got busier. There seemed to be wires, radios and telephones being tested everywhere. I was sitting over the marker board, putting call signs to vehicles and telling blokes where those vehicles were going and what would happen once they got there. The more I wrote down before I gave the formal set of orders, the easier it was for me, because then everybody already had an idea of what he needed to do.
    As I was writing it down, people were coming in and leaning over my shoulder: "How many vehicles needed?"
    "I need two Range Rovers and two fast ropes."
    Bob took his first - two snipers on the ground and showed them their positions; they would start to send information as soon as they were on the ground. In contrast with the police, our snipers had some really good kit. Not just overalls and a roll mat for us; we had camoutage DPM coveralls made of Gore-Tex; inside was a complete body duvet, which was unbelievably comfortable. They only had to wear their tracksuits underneath and could lie out in the mess all day if they had to. The only slight drawback was that the clothing was bulky; from behind, they looked like two Michelin men walking down the path. But they would be grateful for the warmth; the weather was still dull and overcast, a freezing, stinking winter day that found its way into any little gaps in your clothing.
    Now I'd had my chat with Steve and the slime I was ready to fill the board in and get changed myself.
    The team now knew what time orders were and what those orders were likely to consist of, plus what vehicles they had to prepare.
    As well as this, the M.O.E team were looking at the information that had been given by the police. They checked, too, with the scaleys, having a quick look at what measurements and plans they had. Then they started making charges to defeat the windows, which were plastic-framed and double-glazed.
    The whole place was sparked up now, with everybody involved in his own little world. The team were sorting the equipment out, coming in and out, still in their jeans.
    The scaleys were sitting over their equipment, chatting away.
    They, too, were in jeans and rough wear.
    On ops the assault teams wore three layers of clothing: flame-retardant underwear, very much like racing drivers wear; an NBC (nuclear, biological, and chemical) suit to protect us from the gas we would use; then flame-retardant black coveralls. After that the bootshigh-leg cross trainers, which were also great for free fall. I put my belt kit on; this al ' so carried my Sig 9MM pistol, which strapped on halfway down my right thigh.
    I just had to lower my arm and the pistol grip would meet my hand.
    On my left leg I had my mags for the MP5 and Sig, again halfway down my thigh.
    I had an instant sweat on; to make it hotter, on came the body armor. By now I, too, looked like the Michelin man. To top it all, there was the ops waistcoat; this carried my radio with its earpiece and throat mike-some blokes used a mike that went into their respirator, but I didn't like it-explosives, first field dressings, a knife, an ax, flashbangs, plus anything else that was task specific.
    I carried a Heckler & Koch MP5, the high-powered 9MM semiautomatic and automatic weapon. The reason it had become the basic assaulter's weapon was that it had a closed breech, which meant we could have a round up in the breech ready to fire, with the working parts forward-much like a self-loading rifle or an Armalite.
    Most small machine guns work on the blowback principle, where the working parts come forward to initiate a round, and the gases then push back the working parts, which stay to the rear unless you pull the trigger again. The Heckler & Kochs are more reliable and have an excellent rate of fire. And they're British, of all things, Heckler and Koch being part of British Aerospace.
    Another good feature of the MP5 is its three-round burst capability, so every time you squeeze the trigger, it just fires three rounds. Release the trigger, squeeze it again, it'll just fire three rounds. It's the first three to five rounds that are most effective on any automatic weapon.
    The streamlight torch attached was zeroed to the weapon so we could use the beam for aiming as well as simply penetrating darkness or smoke. I used mine even in daylight because it was such a good aiming aid. There are little nuts and bolts to enable you to move the torch around; you zero it so you know that when the torchlight is on the target at so many meters, the rounds are going to go so high or so low from it. In a dark room Maglites also have a good blinding effect on the people you're attacking.
    I had two magazines attached to the weapon: one that was in the weapon and then a bracket with another magazine just to the side of it, so I didn't have to go to my main belt kit in a rush. The weapon was slung over the body on a chest sling so I could climb buildings, jump in and out of vehicles, and do all the business that I wanted, without having to worry about it. It was one of the few times that the Regiment did actually sling weapons.
    At the last moment I would put on my kid leather gloves and respirator; by then I would just be a big sweaty mess with a chest and shoulders like Arnie in a Terminator film. If I was really lucky, I could also find myself carrying the "Barclaycard," a sawn-off pump-action shotgun with the butt taken off; it's used to take doors down by firing a "Hatton round," which takes the hinges out without damaging the people in the room. It got its name from the advert-"A Barclaycard gets you anywhere." In the beginning it came with its own holster, but that proved to be too cumbersome; most of the teams just put a bungee on it and had it hanging down at their sides.
    By the time of my orders group the briefing room was furnished with fold-up canvas army chairs from the wagons. Some blokes were sitting down; some were standing. People were coming in and out; I could hear all the people on the radios in the background.
    They gathered around the board as I gave my I.A orders, white paper cup in one hand and a soggy roll in the other. Before us were plans of the building from all elevations, plus air photos and floor plans.
    This was one occasion when there was no time for anyone to voice an opinion. There was no Chinese parliament.
    I said, "These are orders for the I.A that is in place directly after these orders.
    "Ground. The building has three floors. At the front there are the main double doors; these are plate glass with a plastic frame. The doors have been covered over with tablecloths so we can't see in. On each side there is a window, then a window above that per floor; these are all double-glazed with plastic frames. All the windows in the whole building have their curtains closed. From the main door there is a central staircase that has two flights per floor. On the roof there are skylights that open up into the main corridor on the top floor.
    After these orders look at the plans and familiarize yourself with the rest of the outside; the front is all we are concerned with at the moment.
    "Situation. Six hours ago members of Islamic jihad took over the building that was the venue for a conference sponsored by the Jewish trade commission. They are demanding the release of five of their group being held in Parkhurst prison for the attempted bombing of the Israeli Embassy. It seems that there are up to six X rays and approximately twenty-seven Yankees.
    "There are no pictures yet, or information, on anyone, except that one of the X rays, X ray One, is a woman. From her voice she appears to be in her mid-twenties with a strong northern Palestine accent. Her English/American is good. All indications show that the group have split the Yankees and spread them around the building. No weapons have been seen, but it is a reasonable assumption that they have automatic weapons.
    "Deadlines. Negotiations have been taking place since ten hundred hours. The first deadline is in forty-five minutes' time, at sixteen hundred hours. They want to talk with one of their group who is in Parkhurst."
    I then gave the mission statement, which is always said twice: "Mission.
    To rescue the hostages, to rescue the hostages.
    "Execution. Assault group. Red One and One Alpha, you are to fast-rope onto the roof and make an explosive entry through the skylight. Your L.O.E [limit of exploitation] is the top floor. I want a link man on the first landing to RP with Two and Two Alpha. Steve, which way are you both going to approach from?"
    "From the northwest along the tree line, then low over the park."
    "Okay, it will take twenty seconds for the wagons to be on target.
    If you give thirty seconds to target, that will keep us together.
    "Two and Two Alpha, you are to make an explosive entry into the two middle-floor windows. Two, take the left window on call sign Tango One
    [Range Rover]. Two Alpha on the right on call sign Tango Two-your L.O.E is the middle floor. I want link men to RP with One Alpha and to move down to the first landing and RP with Three and Three Alpha.
    "Three-that's me-and Three Alpha are to make an explosive entry into the front double doors. Three will go left on call sign Tango One, and Three Alpha will take the right on call sign Tango Two. Your L.O.E is the ground floor. I want a link man to RP with Two.
    "Sniper group. Sierra One and Two, you are to cover the call signs as they move in from the inner cordon.
    "Sierra Three and Four, you are to move forward from the inner cordon on the standby and cover both sides and rear with G threes.
    "Hostage reception. The reception area will be in the area of the main doors. Once entry has been effected you are to move forward.
    "A.T.O [ammunition technical officer] and medic. You will be called forward on request. Call Sign Three will RP with you at the main entrance.
    "Tango One and Tango Two. I want you to drive head-on from the start line here," I said, pointing at the map. "Once you come around the corner you will come head-on to the building. The distance is approximately one hundred fifty meters. Once on target you will cover the teams in, become casualty replacement if called; if not, become part of hostage reception. If we get a stand down from the deadline, I'll bring you forward so you can see the run-in. Any questions?"
    There weren't.
    "Timings. After these orders I want the teams to look at the plans and sort themselves out. By fifteen thirty five hours the I.A. 's ready.
    The first deadline is at sixteen hundred.
    "Vehicle group, at fifteen-fifty everyone needs to be on the wagons, ready apart from respirators. We will then I move in slow time to the start 1- e. Tango One will lead, in and I'll show you the way.
    The team will be stood to at the start line at fifteen.fifty-five hours.
    "Heli group, at fifteen fifty-five you need to be on board, rotors turning. Steve, if you are not told otherwise, close down at sixteen-ten. Any questions? No?
    Right that's it."
    The formal stuff over with, I then talked with my team and mulled over the plans.
    "Dave," you make ohtry. I'll go in number one-Tim Two, Fat Boy Three, and Dave Four. Once we clear the hallway we will go left and take the large room, then this one here by the stairwell. Once we are all clear I want you, Tim, to link up with Three Alpha at the bottom of the stairs, then clear to the first landing and RP with Two. Any questions?
    Good, let's sort our shit out and load up."
    That was all there was to say because everybody knew the rest.
    We walked out of the briefing area to the two Range Rovers, Tango One and Tango Two, that were going to take us -on to the target.
    "Hello, Alpha, this is Three," I said on the net.
    "That's Tango One and Two moving to the start line.
    Over."
    "Alpha, roger that, moving to the start line."
    "Alpha" was the coordinating call sign for our base, which would be in the briefing area and manned by the scaley. "Alpha One" was the commander.
    The blokes were sitting all over the outside of the vehicles. All Don, the driver, could see was two pairs of black legs that belonged to my team, who were going to take the first floor. As we moved to the start line under police escort, I could hear the Agustas' rotors starting to wind up.
    I got out of the Range Rover at the corner of the row of buildings and watched as everyone put his respirator on and "checked camber"-pulling the working parts back slightly on his weapons so that he could see there was a round ready to fire.
    The two drivers quickly turned up to the corner and got down on their stomachs. One of them peered around with just a quarter of his face and one eye so he could look up the drive and get a mental picture of the run-in. As soon as Tango One's driver had had a look, he got out of the way and the other fellow got down.
    "Alpha this is Three, that's Two and Three stood to, over."
    "Alpha, roger that, One acknowledge."
    "One stood to, out," the pilot said.
    In the background of his radio message I could hear the rotors turning.
    The squadron O.C would be with the senior policeman, listening on his radio and explaining everything that we were doing and confirming that the I.A was stood to. If the X rays started killing the Yankees, it was the police, not us, who would decide that we went in.
    We were there to supply military aid to the civil power, that was all.
    All the team sat on the wagons and in the helicopters, listening on their radios and waiting for the deadline.
    Engines and rotors were running.
    It was now approaching the deadline. The snipers were watching and listening intently.
    "Alpha-Sierra One, that's shouting and movement on White One-One," came one.
    Each window and door had a color and number. I knew he was referring to the far-left bottom window.
    "Alpha, roger that, shouting and movement on White One-One."
    All the team could hear this on their own radios.
    "Alpha, Sierra One, that's White One-One opening, wait… wait..
    . that's one X ray, possible male, black ski mask with a green combat jacket carrying an AK… wait… he's shouting and pointing to the control area, over."
    "Alpha, roger that, out to you. Tango One, acknowledge."
    "Tango One."
    "Tango Twoll "Tango Two."
    "One?"
    "One, roger that," Steve said. The rotors were still turning.
    "Alpha One?"
    "Alpha One, roger."
    It was the last chance for a check. Is my pistol held in correctly? Is the flap over the pistol so it's not going to fall out?
    Are the magazines secure?
    The people with the window and door charges were checking them, starting with the clacker: Is the clacker on correctly? Is it nice and secure?
    Then, all the way up, following that line. Is the det on securely? Is the det on securely to the det cord? Is the charge all complete?
    Is the respirator on right? Is the seal tight between the respirator and the coveralls? You don't want to start getting gas down you because it hurts. Gas doesn't only affect the breathing system and the eyes; it affects the skin, it stings severely. Are the gloves on tight? If they were baggy, I might have a problem as I went to draw MY Pistol or started manipulating my MP5 or pistol.
    Everything was secure. I was holding on to the vehicle, waiting for that "Stand by!" to go.
    We heard, "Hello, One and One Alpha, move to your holding area, over "One, One Alpha, roger that, out."
    The helicopters were starting to go up; within the forward control room the senior policeman must have been a bit concerned about what was going on. He hadn't handed over control, but he was saying: "Get the helis up to save time, so at least once they're in the holding area we can start running them in."
    At the same time all the snipers were coming on the net.
    "Hello, Alpha, this is Sierra One. That's still more shouting.
    Still more movement. It seems now there's movement on Two-Two, the window above. Can't identify anyone; it's just movement. I can see the window and the curtains moving. There's a face at the windowcan't identify it, over."
    "Yep, roger that."
    Blokes were pulling out flashbangs from their ops waistcoats; as we were going in, just as we were approaching the place, we'd start throwing them to produce distraction and confusion-the more the better.
    We wanted to disorientate and scare these guys.
    All the engines were running. Everybody was just waiting for the go.
    And still we had more hollering and shouting; the snipers were bringing in more information.
    The negotiators would be working really hard talking to the people inside the building-if they still had comms with them, that is, and these people wanted to talk. They'd be talking to them and at the same time they'd be giving messages in siga language to everybody around them in the main incident room.
    For us on the Range Rovers, it was just a question of sitting there in the wagons twenty seconds away, out of I sight. Nobody was doing anything; we weren't talking, y because we had our respirators on.
    I sat back and put my head clown, listening to what was going on.
    I didn't want to waste energy. I just slumped. I had my weapon strapped over me; I was weighed down with kit; it would have been pointless running around. We couldn't hear what the negotiators were saying, but I knew they would have been trying to calm the situation down. There was no way that C.O.B.R were going to let them talk with their people in Parkhurst.
    "Alpha, Sierra One, that's the X ray back in White One-One, window and curtains closed."
    "Alpha."
    The deadline had passed. The negotiators were doing their bit; the chief constable must have been satisfied that the threat to kill two hostages at 3:00 P.m. had been successfully avoided.
    "Hello, all call signs, this is Alpha One-stand down the I.A.
    Stand down the I.A. All call signs acknowledge."
    We all acknowledged the Boss and took our respirators off and made our weapons safe-an unload followed by a load, without putting a round in the chamber.
    We drove back with the police escort and watched the heli teams walk back to the briefing room.
    The place looked completely different. By now all the intelligence collation and signals equipment was on-line.
    There were more pictures and plans of the building plus information on the wiring, sewage pipes, ventilation systems-more intelligence than You could shake a stick at.
    Also there were a number of photos of one of the terrorists, taken by the technical teams of the Home Office. Now we had our second terrorist, called X ray Two, and a picture, There was nothing high-tech about the scene, just boards with things stuck on with pins, masking tape, magiboards with magnets to hold bits up. It was a very fluid situation; we had to be able to pull information off and replace it quickly.
    Each of us had a white paper cup of hot tea in our hands as we went over to the briefing area where the Blue team were waiting. The slime were going to give everyone an update.
    "The situation so far is, the negotiators are trying to get three of the Yankees exchanged for food. These are one sixty-five-year-old employee, the gardener and his two grandchildren, aged six and nine.
    Pictures are now starting to arrive of some of the Yankees; as soon as we get them, I'll put them on the board with a description if possible.
    "As you know we now have an X ray Two. He is a male, approximately six foot two and fifteen stone.
    There is no new deadline as yet and no more info apart from what is on the boards. Any questions?"
    The squadron O.C then took over.
    "The Red team is to stay on standby for the I.A until oh-six-hundred hours. Orders for the team changeover will be at oh-five-thirty. Any questions?"
    "What are the feeding arrangements?" Fat Boy asked.
    I smiled. So what's new? I thought.
    Everyone looked at the SQMS.
    "There will be a container meal arriving at nineteen hundred hours, and from then on the police will take over. As soon as I know more, I'll post it on the board. I'll make sure the tea urns are filled. Try to save the paper cups; use your own mugs if you can."
    We filed out of the briefing room, throwing our paper cups into the black bin liners that the SQMS and his storeman had been putting up everywhere.
    There was background noise of ringing phones and the amplified voices of the snipers sending back information, relayed through loudspeakers so that everyone could hear what was happening. There was a general buzz of people talking to one another and into phones and radios, and the noise and echo of others moving and setting up more equipment. It was still cold inside the building; there was localized heat as some heaters were now on, but I could still see my breath.
    The admin area next door had changed also. The Red team had got their camp beds out and started to place their body armor and belt kits next to them; then the books and Walkmans were coming out. As NWe were the I.A, no kit came off apart from our MP5s and respiratorsI got a camp bed, unrolled my sleeping bag, but decided it was too early to sleep.
    I went outside between the two rooms and saw a couple of the Blue team talking with two policemen who were part of a cordon to stop people coming into our area.
    "It's great for the overtime," one of the policemen was saying.
    He started to talk about the miners' strike.
    "There was one force that had their own T-shirts printed with the message 'A.S.P.O.M.-Arthur Scargill Pays Our Mortgages."' I went into the briefing area to see what was going on.
    The squadron O.C was on the net to Sierra Two, who was tucked away in his OP, watching the front and right-hand side of the building.
    "From your position could you get gas into White Three-Two, over?"
    Sierra Two said, "Wait." He'd want to take another look before committing himself.
    "Alpha One, Sierra Two-yep, I can do that if I move twenty meters left before the standby, over."
    "Roger that, out to you. Hello, Sierra One, what's the cover like from you to the rear fire escape, over?"
    "Sierra One, ' there is dead ground up to about sixty meters short of the fire escape. However, I haven't been there, over."
    "Alpha One, roger that. There will be someone down on your position soon, and they will have a look. Out.
    He was busy planning a number of deliberate options covering day, night, covert, and overt situations. These options would have to be ready for when C.O.B.R had tu had enough or the si ation had deteriorated to the extent that the police handed the incident over. Planning for the deliberate attack could involve anything from an elaborate model being made up for us to look at to just loads of floor plans and masking tape put out on the ground to represent the area. We would walk and talk through everything. Sitting in were both teams' 2i/cs and their ruperts; they were all part of the planning process.
    The team 2i/cs, the senior noncommiss oned ranks, were there because of their experience; the team ruperts were there to suck them dry of information-to learn, as well as be part of an operational squadron.
    One day one of them would be in the squadron O.C's seat-a fearsome responsibility.
    The Regiment didn't need troop commanders; in 7 Troop we didn't have a troop commander for years. A troop ran itself under its senior NCO. However, what was needed was squadron commanders, a squadron HQ element. With troops dotted all around the world, somebody was needed who knew where they were and what they required. One of the troop commanders was one day going to be the squadron commander, so it was in everybody's interests to make sure we trained them up well.
    For them, it was another form of Selection; they did their three-year tour, and if they were any good, they might get invited back to run a squadron. If they screwed up, it wasn't their fault but that of the troop senior or the troop as a whole. It was our responsibility not just to give the rupert a hard time-as you do-but to make sure that he was given all the opportunity in those three years to learn as much as possible. It was no different really from training recruits at Winchester. A bad product was down to us, not the recruit.
    It was the senior NCO, the team senior, who really ran the show.
    He did the day-to-day planning and all the administration. And it was also his job to make sure that the officer knew what was going on, and we as a team needed to be teaching him as well.
    I got bored and went back to my sleeping bag to read my book, The Feudal Kingdom of England.
    Then it was time for the container meal. This was, as predicted,
    "Airborne stew"-Meat, potatoes, vegetables, all cooked up together.
    Sometimes there are paper plates on offer, but most people bring and use their own; they hold more. For pudding, there were six rounds of bread I.C each and a sticky bun.
    One of the scaleys came in while I was still eating.
    "Can we have both teams in the briefing room at nineteen-thirty for an update, I thank you!"
    Some of the scaleys were the world's oldest corporals and sergeants.
    Because they don't want to leave Squadron, they forgo any chance of promotion that would mean moving out of Hereford.
    We sat down in front of the slime and finished off our stickies.
    "We still have seen only X ray Two. All the negotiations are still being conducted by the woman."
    We could hear her voice on the loudspeakers.
    "Can you turn that up?" someone shouted from the back of the team.
    Her words filled the room: "If you do not put our statement on the BBC nine P.m. and ITN ten P.m. news, we will start to kill people. We have shown you that we are not savages, you have your old man and children…"
    "I want to help you," said one of the negotiators.
    "None of us want this to turn out a bloodbath, do we? I cannot make any promises, but I assure you that I am making all efforts to help you.
    Everything I said I would do has happened. We need to work together..
    . ou must understand I need time." y "It is obvious you are not listening. We will start to kill if the broadcasts are…"
    Somebody turned the volume down.
    The slime continued: "As you heard, the old man and two children have just been released. He is in shock and cannot give any information of any use apart from that he thinks there are four or five and only one of them a woman."
    One of the scaleys shouted out: "Stand to the I.A!"
    We ran to the vehicles and turned our radios on.
    Weapons were made ready and respirators put on while we screamed off to the start line. The people with the entry charges were checking to ensure they were okay, and putting on the claymore clacker that would initiate the charge.
    "Alpha, Tango One and Two at the start line, over."
    "Roger that, out to you. One, this is Alpha, over."
    "One, rotors turning and stood to, over."
    "Roger that, out."
    On the net we could all hear the snipers giving information on the target: "More movement on White TwoOne and White One-One. There is screaming coming from the ground floor, I can't tell what room."
    "Roger that, Sierra Two."
    I heard two bursts of automatic fire and knew it wouldn't be long before we went into action.
    "Hello, One and One Alpha, this is Alpha One. Move to your holding area."
    "One, roger."
    We could not see them, but we knew that both helis would now be flying off to an area where they couldn't be heard by the terrorists, waiting for the order to move on target. It was dark by now, and all lights were out.
    Steve and Jerry would be using their NVGS.
    The chief constable now had to wait for confirmation that people had been killed. The sound of shots was not enough.
    He was soon to have his confirmation: A body was dumped at the main door with the threat of another one in five minutes if the TV statement demand was not met.
    The policeman spoke to C.O.B.R, and the decision was made.
    The squadron O.C got on the net: "Hello, all stations, this is Alpha One, radio check, over."
    We all answered.
    "All stations, I have control, I have control. I Call signs One and One Alpha, commence your run-in."
    "One and One Alpha, roger that, out."
    It was on.
    The helis dropped low over the trees, still on their NVGS. The doors both sides of the Agusta 109s were open. Each helicopter had four men aboard. The number one, who was going to come down the fast rope, was looking out of the helicopter as it screamed in, respirator on, looking at the approach. He had two hands on the fast rope, which was six inches in diameter. The rest of the rope dangled around his right foot ready for him to kick it out; he'd put two hands around it, grip also with the sides of his assault boots, and slide down, very much like a fireman coming down a pole.
    "That's thirty seconds, thirty seconds."
    This was the last chance to cancel. The O.C would have looked at the policeman for confirmation.
    "All stations, I have control. Stand by, stand by… go, go, go!"
    The vehicles moved off with the teams holding on for grim death.
    As we turned the corner, we could see the building; Tango Two came up level with us, and I heard the helis making their approach. They were flying low toward the building, lower than the building itself.
    A little arm sticks out from each side of the aircraft with the fast rope; as soon as the helicopter starts to' hover over the target, the number one kicks out the rope. As soon as the rope goes out, the number one goes with it; he slides down the fast rope before it hits the bottom of the roof.
    I looked up. The helicopters were coming in, lots of noise, lots of downblast, shit flying off the roof. They flared just ten feet above the roof. There were flashbangs exploding, and by now the pilots have taken their NVGs off. The instruments are on a swivel on their helmets; they just push them up above their helmets as NVGs are affected by flashbangs and would be whited out.
    The helicopters were striining in a flare position, then started going backward and forward two or three feet in a hover. The blokes were streaming down the rope. The number three on each team had quite a task, because as he fast-roped, as well as his equipment, he would be bringing down a rectangular charge over his shoulder.
    He'd have to be really careful with it so he didn't rip off the det or mess up the wiring.
    At one time there were all four of them on the fast rope. As soon as each man's feet hit the bottom, he moved out of the way. As they came down, they were looking around, looking at the floor, making sure nobody was coming out of the skylights to start taking a pop at them.
    Seconds later the helis were gone.
    Someone put his head out of the top left-hand window; we knew Sierra One had him in his sights; there was no need for us to worry, that was his job. He didn't get on the radio, he just got his telescopic sight on him, covering the assault as it went in. If he was a threat, he would soon have a 7.62 Lapua round in his head to make sure he stopped being one.
    On the standby the other two snipers around the back, Sierra Three and Four, had gone running forward with G3s, choosing areas where they could cover two sides each. They didn't need telescopic sights because they were so close; their G3s had normal iron sights.
    They had the outside covered; they could take any runners that were coming out. If the X rays ran out beyond the snipers, they'd get caught in the police cordon, but that never came into the equation; as somebody in B Squadron once said, no one runs faster than Mr. Heckler & Koch.
    As the Range Rover stopped, flashbangs were going off.
    We jumped off and ran to the main doors. They were locked and still covered over with curtains. Dave secured the charge to the left-hand side door with doublesided tape; there was enough explosive to blow the whole thing in.
    Everyone was back against the wall, looking up with weapons covering the windows. If anyone poked his head out with bad intentions, he would not enjoy the view for long.
    As he moved back, Dave checked with his hand the line of the det cord to the detonator and then to the firing wire, a last check to make sure everything was right. By checking, he could say, "Bin it," if it was screwed up, and we'd go straight in with the axes, just as Tiny had had to do at the embassy. Dave, was rushing, but he was still taking his time to make sure the charge was complete. The last thing he wanted to do was push that clacker and have nothing happen.
    Both teams were ready. As Dave went past, Tim, the number two, was ready with another flashbang.
    I had my weapon up in the aim, ready to go in. As I took off the safety, I shouted, "Go!"
    Our charge and one of the first-floor teams' went off at the same time.
    I started to move. The flashbang flew past me, and I followed it in. It would be no good going in after it had finished; I had to be there with it.
    The hallway was dark and was starting to fill with smoke from the flashbangs. Another one exploded, and I felt the effect of the blast.
    The noise jarred my whole body, and I could feel the pressure on my eardrums. The flash was blinding, but I had to work through that.
    We'd trained enough in these situations; my hands still arried burn marks from when one of the maroons had chit me.
    The whole building was shaking with concussion and seared by sheets of blinding light.
    On my right I could see the other team moving. I didn't look, but I knew that my group would be heading for that first door.
    The hallway was clear.
    I turned and saw that I was number two at the door.
    The last two of my lot had gone straight for it and were waiting.
    I heard flashbangs and firing from the other floors.
    I ran over, pulling out a flashbang and getting right behind the first man. I put it over his shoulder so he knew that we were ready.
    The number three on the opposite side of us kicked the door open.
    As soon as four inches of gap appeared, the flashbang was in, and so were we.
    Nobody was worried about what was inside or what would happen when the door was opened. We'd done it so many times. There was no time to think about danger or the possibility of cocking up.
    The lights were on, and the noise and flashes were doing their job well.
    Dave went left; as I came in, I saw a group of people huddled together in a corner but no people with masks or weapons.
    I heard an MPS fire. One of the group pulled an AK and was bringing it up.
    I got my torch onto his head and gave him a quick burst. The Yankees were screaming and crying and had to be controlled.
    Tim, who was covering both of us as we took the room, shouted, "Get down, get down!" He pointed his weapon at them to make them understand that he was serious-and because there could be terrorists in the group.
    He was now dragging them down onto the floor if they weren't doing what they were told. This was no time to be sensitive and caring.
    Dave moved forward at the same time to clear the room. Because he had to move a settee, he let his weapon go on its sling and pulled his pistol.
    At the same time Tim was shouting: "Where are the terrorists, any more terrorists?"
    Once we cleared the room we were going to the next one. As I came out, Tim was pushing people onto the floor and shouting, "Stay there, don't move!"
    The other teams were still doing their stuff. I ran past our number four, who was covering the hallway. He was in a corner so that he dominated the whole area and at the same time could see up the staircase.
    I got to the door and became number one. The bottom of my respirator had filled up with sweat, and I was breathing so heavily under all the body armor that I could feel its diaphragm clanking up and down. Tim came up behind me and shoved a flashbang under my nose.
    Once we had a number three we were ready, and in we went.
    The room was empty.
    Shouts echoed from other rooms as the Yankees were controlled. My breathing was labored, I was listening to the net, listening to two lots of people speaking at once.
    Oral commands were being shouted through resp' orators; hand signals were flashing from man to man. Throughout the building there were weapons firing, maroons exploding, smoke and people everywhere.
    It was very claustrophobic Inside the respirator. I was a big sweaty mess, trying to do my job and think of about ten things at the same time.
    We still had a problem. We didn't know if any X rays had hidden among the Yankees-or maybe the Yankees were actively shielding some.
    The Stockholm Syndrome bonds victims to their captors; they had to be covered with weapons until we knew who was who.
    Tim started to move up the stairs, covered by a member from the other team. He moved very slowly, his pistol out, ready. He was making sure there was no threat on the stairs, and ensuring that he didn't have a blue-one blue with the other link man he was to RP with.
    They linked up, and I got on the net.
    It had been just over two minutes from the "Go. go, go! "_ The firing had stopfed, but the shouting had not.
    Smoke was billowing everywhere, and now all the call signs were sending information back on the net that their areas were clear and what the casualty state was.
    Fat Boy said, "We have a wounded woman."
    I looked around, and one of the Yankees was holding her leg.
    I got on to the net: "This is Three, we have a wounded Yankee, request medic backup, over."
    "Roger that, Three. He is on his way, out."
    Dave went to the door to lead him to the casualty. I then got on the net and gave my sitrep.
    By now the whole of the front of the building was floodlit, and the hostage reception was ready for custom.
    "All stations, evacuate the Yankees, evacuate the Yankees."
    It looked like a human conveyor belt as we moved people out. They mustn't have time to think, they must be scared; you shout and holier to control them into the arms of the hostage reception. Everybody was picking them up and shoving them, shouting: "Get up, get up!
    Move, move, move!"
    They got as hard a time as if they were confirmed terrorists, lined up facedown on the floor and handcuffed.
    "Stay still, no talking!"
    They were covered with pistols.
    The SSM came along with a torch, grasped hold of each person's head, and pulled it back, shining the powerful beam into his eyes.
    "Name?"
    When he was satisfied that everyone was who he said he was, they were put on transport and moved away to the police cordon.
    "Hello, Alpha One, this is Two. We have a possible I.E.D [improvised explosive device]. We have marked it and are moving out.
    Over."
    They would put a small flashing yellow light on it.
    The same would be done for a man down; yellow light penetrates smoke better than white.
    Someone else was getting direction from CRW.
    "Alpha One, roger. RP with A.T.O, all call signs evacuate the building, over."
    We all acknowledged, quite pleased to be evacuating.
    We could get back to the admin area, have a quick debrief, and then it would be wacky races back to Hereford. There was a great rule that whoever came on the helis went back on them. That was fine, apart from having to listen to Steve bang on about his latest squash game.
    The exercise had gone smoothly. We'd been good, and so we should have been. We were on the ranges every day, leaping onto buildings, screaming through the CQB house, running around with the vehicles, up and down ladders, practicing until we could almost do it blindfolded.
    The only thing that didn't improve with the training was that we lived our lives with a ring around our faces where the seal of the respirator pressed down.
    The X rays had been members of CRW apart from the woman, who was from the Home Office. They had been working to a brief that only they knew; however, it could have changed at any time, depending on the actions of us and the other agencies involved. If they had seen anything to arouse their suspicions, they would have reacted.
    Part of learning to fight terrorists was knowing how to be one, and the blokes in the Regiment, and particularly CRW, were probably the most professional in the world. With our skills and knowledge we could bring down governments in months.
    Things started to go really well with Fiona. We were sitting in the front room one day having a romantic conversation about electricity bills, and I said, "This is quite stupid. Why don't we move in together? You virtually live in my house anyway, so why don't you come in?"
    "I want'to do that," Fiona said, "but only if you let me go halves on everything."
    "I buy the washing machine, you buy the hoover?" It sounded good, to me, and since I was on the team, at least there was the chance of some time together. We used it to the full.
    The house started to take shape. It was a nice little place, in a smart part of town; we really got busy redecorating, putting new doors up, and we both chipped in to. have heating installed. Gradually furniture and curtains appeared. As far as I was concerned, I'd be there forever; there was no reason to move. It really felt like home.
    In June 1986 I had one of those mornings when I got into work at eight o'clock and was out again by ninethirty. I came home; I'd been trying to fix the exhaust on the Renault 5 because the bracket kept falling off and I was damned if I was going to pay fifteen pounds to have it sorted out. I was trying to hold it on with bits of coat hanger and all sorts.
    I'd spent the afternoon doing that, came in, and was sitting down having a cup of tea, watching the telly.
    Fiona had been downtown for a doctor's appointment; she came in, stood in the doorway, and said, "I've got something to tell you. I wasn't too sure of your reaction, so I wanted to make sure. Andy, I'm pregnant."
    I felt as if I'd taken a straight right from Mike Tyson. I said, "This is really good. What do you reckon?"
    "I don't know. I don't know if it's good or bad. Do you think we should have the baby? I'm for it if you are."
    "Right, okay, let's do it-let's have a baby."
    Was it the right time, was it the wrong time? whoever knows? It was scary, but it was nice, a wonderful feeling of having created something worthwhile. So there I was, the expectant father.
    As the pregnancy progressed, Fiona started to go through a bad patch, getting very tired with anemia.
    She'd get up in the mornings, walk around, then have to get her head down again. It was lucky that I was on the team because every spare moment I had I could get back and make her cups of tea and just be there. It would have been tough for her if I'd had to go away; somebody would have had to be there to look after her.
    Money was tight. I was still on trooper's pay, although I had reached the dizzy heights of lance-corporal.
    The next step was the big one; corporal's pay was very good indeed. I hoped I'd have sorted that out by the time the baby was born. Whatever happened, nothing could take away from me how good it felt to have a home and a child on the way.
    Around Christmas time, when Fiona was about seven months pregnant, I found out that I had to go away on a team job in February. When I worked out the dates, I found that it was the day before she was due to have our baby.
    "That's no problem," she said. "We'll look up a few old wives' tales and jump up and down in the rhubarb patch or something to bring the baby a day earlier. It might be early anyway. Let's keep our fingers crossed."
    She went for all the tests and asked, "What are the chances of getting the baby induced a day early? My boyfriend's got to go away and will be away for a few months. He wants to be present at the birth."
    I was getting quite upset about it because I really wanted to be there; this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me.
    But the team job wasn't going to be knocked back a day just because Lance-corporal McNab was going to have a baby.
    I started combing magazines for possible "cures."
    "You'll have to get your finger out the day before," I said to Fiona, handing her the latest concoction I'd read about-something like Worcester sauce and pineapple juice. "Give this baby a good talking-to.
    Explain the facts of life; it's got to come out early."
    Life went on. John McCarthy had been kidnapped in Beirut in April 1986.
    In January 1987 so was Terry Waite. It wasn't long before the press were speculating about what kind of role the Regiment might be playing in securing their release. On 28 January 1987, just a week or so after Waite's disappearance, we all got into the crew room in the morning, normal routine. It was a really miserable old day, windy and raining.
    Blokes had brought day sacks in as usual, with newspapers and magazines in case we got bored. We passed them around, drinking tea and chatting.
    The big debate was whether we should have a sports afternoon, a big tradition in the British Army.
    We went down to the CQB house for a couple of hours, got back, swept the hangar out, and then binned it. For once we were all nodding in agreement: a sports afternoon, a good thing to do.
    Gar was sitting there reading the paper, and he said, "Fucking hell, look, this is news to me."
    The Dally Express had the headline: S.A.S SCOUR CRISIS CITY FOR WAFTE.
    "Pity we're going gn this other job," Gar said. "We might have been getting a suntan soon by the looks of things."
    Nobody was really that concerned about it. If it didn't involve us immediately, we weren't particularly interested.
    I said to Gar, "It was obvious he was going to get lifted. I don't think there's a bookie in the land would have taken a bet on him not joining McCarthy."
    "I know," Gar said. "And now some lucky fucker's going to be asked to risk his life to get him out." Because she'd been so sick during her pregnancy, Fiona had to go into hospital for the last three or four days. I visited her as often as I could and kept badgering the nurses into agreeing to induce.
    "Don't worry," they said, "we'll sort it all out."
    I went into work and explained the situation to the SSM. "What's the latest time I can get away on the Tuesday?" I asked.
    The SSM went over to the clerk and said, "Danny, what's the score on that job? What time are they leaving?"
    Danny shuffled through bits of paper and said, "If he gets his toe down, if he leaves at half past one, he'll get to Heathrow on time."
    "There you go," said the SSM. "Half past one."
    As I started walking out, he said, "Andy, make sure you're there.
    Don't fuck up."
    I went back to the hospital, saw Fiona, and said, "Tomorrow, at one-thirty, I have to walk out of here whether we have our child or not."
    "I understand, but don't worry, we'll sort something out with the doctors."
    I was getting quite upset; I really wanted to be there when my baby was born. I kissed her good-bye and said, "Get your finger out! Get this baby born!"
    By now her parents had traveled up from Hampshire and were going to stay at the house while I was away.
    Her mother said, "Don't worry, if she comes into labor now, you stay with her until one o'clock and then I'll come over."
    I drove back to work to sort myself out so everything was ready to go. I had to run around to find somebody else who was on the team job with me.
    Johnny two Combs was on it, but I couldn't find him. I went up to the gym and there were Fat Boy and Paul Hill on the weights, taking the piss out of each other.
    Paul had joined the army after a career as a croupier in clubs.
    He had an outrageous lifestyle and was the ultimate party animal, out every night, coming in to work knackered in the morning. He and Fat Boy were in the Far East once, playing blackjack in a really downmarket casino. Paul with all his experience and expertise was counting the cards and all sorts-and losing left, right, and center.
    Fat Boy, so pissed he could hardly sit in his chair, walked awa ' with a fortune. y I said, "My kit's packed; it's in the block. When you go, can you make sure it gets on the wagon?"
    "No drama."
    I got back in the car, went home, and spent the night sitting by the telephone.
    Nothing happened.
    Next morning, the moment I got in the shower, the phone rang.
    Fiona's father said, "She's going into labor. They said there's no rush. Go down in about an hour."
    I was at the hospital ten minutes later.
    The contractions started, and we sat there drinking tea. She was moved to another room; they put the radio on and brought in the papers.
    She was scared; I was scared for her. Then she said, "If the baby doesn't come before you have to go, it's not a problem, but I'd really love you to be here."
    It was the first time-ever that I'd thought: I don't want to go away.
    Tomorrow, maybe even in another few hours, but for this moment I don't want to go. I so much wanted to see this thing that I had created; I had never felt so much affection and attachment as I did for this child that I hadn't even seen.
    At nine o'clock a nurse came in and said there was a phone call.
    Fuck! Fiona and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same, that they wanted me down there now.
    I picked up the phone, and it was Paul. "There's been a change of plan," he said.
    My whole body sankHe started laughing. "Gotcha! just to say, we've decided we might as well all leave together at half one."
    The labor continued. There was me drinking more tea, her getting worse with the contractions, and then, at midday, all the pain started.
    She was swearing and hollering, even with an epidural, calling me every name under the sun. I felt useless. There was nothing I could do except hold her hand. Then she didn't want me to do that. Then she did.
    It was a noisy hour. I felt guilty because she was in pain, and even guiltier that I knew I had to leave.
    Ever the sensitive father-to-be, I said, "Look, you'd really better go for it here. I'm off in half an hour."
    "I know, I know, I know."
    Her mum poked her head around the door at quarter past one.
    I gave Fiona a kiss on the forehead and said, "I've got to go."
    "I know-you bastard!"
    "I'll see you."
    I got in the car and went straight down to work. Everybody was waiting by the Ministry of Defense Police lodge.
    "What's happened?"
    "Jack shit."
    We drove to Heathrow at Warp Speed Two, me very pissed off on the backseat and not involved in the banter.
    . As soon as we arrived, I phoned the hospital. Nothing. I checked in and phoned again.
    "Anything happened?"
    "Who are you?"
    "I'm the father."
    "Okay, wait."
    I waited forever. "Nothing yet."
    I went and had another coffee. The other boys were up at the bar, having a drink.
    I phoned again. Still nothing. It was time to board the aircraft. One more call. Nothing. just as we were lining up to hand in the boarding passes, I gave it one more try.
    "It's McNab again."
    "Wait, wait. I think her mother's going to come and speak to you."
    I heard the phone go down and footsteps running along the corridor.
    Her mother picked up the receiver, out of breath.
    "Just happened! A couple of minutes ago!"
    "All the arms, all the legs?"
    "Yes."
    "What is it?"
    "It's a girl. She's beautiful. I don't know the weight yet, but everything's fine."
    A girl!
    I knew her name was Kate. We'd already worked out what it was going to be. It was quite a shock. It wasn't high elation. I felt numbed; I just thought, I'm a father now-and it must have been very smoky in the departures lounge that day because as I put the phone down, my eyes were watering.
    I joined the others on the aircraft, and Paul said, "She had it?"
    "Yeah, it's a girl."
    "Congratulations, mate." He shook my hand, all smiles. "It feels great, doesn't it?"
    Even Paul, who lived his life somersaulting from good time to good time, could remember what it felt like. He had a passion about his daughter that I'd never been able to understand; it seemed so strange, coming from him. This bloke who didn't seem to care about anything, just having fun and working and really going for it, down in his heart and at the back of his head, continuously, was his daughter. Now I understood.
    Now I knew exactly how he felt.
    One of the benefits of going on a team job was that we traveled club class, so it was straight into the little bottles of champagne as we toasted my good news. It was a long flight, and the six of us got quietly pissed.
    For weeks I was waiting for more news. Letters always had to go to Hereford for collation and were then sent on to an embassy or a consulate or the agency that we were working for in whichever country.
    It took awhile for them to get to us, and I was gagging for a picture.
    At last two letters turned up. I could feel that there were pictures inside. As I ripped open the envelopes, blokes gathered around.
    Two-Combs looked over my shoulder and said, "She's beautiful, isn't she?"
    "Fuck off," I said. "She's all greasy and covered in mucus.
    However, yes, she is."
    Then we all sat around cooing and admiring.
    It was a really shifty job for me, tucked away on the side of a mountain for weeks on end, wishing that I was back in Hereford. But you have to make a positive out of a negative, which in this case was that at least it was another part of the world I hadn't seen.
    I came back in late May 1987, having lost two stone. with dysentery, but not in such a bad way as was Two-Combs, who was diagnosed as having typhoid.
    Two days later they decided it was a rupturing appendix.
    We got back to the camp and unloaded all the kit. Fat Boy phoned his wife to come and pick him up and said he'd drop me home.
    As we drove around to the house, I saw the curtain twitch, and then Fiona came out onto the path with a bundle in her arms.
    I gave Fiona a kiss, then took the baby, all wrapped up and asleep. I peeked inside the shawl and saw her face for the first time.
    I had a shock; her lip looked deformed. However, the most beautiful deformed baby in the world.
    "What's wrong with her?" I said. "Is she all right?"
    "She's only sucking her lip." Fiona laughed. "Don't worry, she's perfect."
    Mr. and Mrs. Fat Boy came over, clucking like two hens. They were as smitten as I was, and that was the start of it; for the next few years they were producing children like people possessed.
    It was wonderful to have some time with Kate. I spent hours watching her little hands all clenched up, and I kept thinking: I made that! I hated the time that she was asleep and willed her to wake up; I soon learned that all they're doing at that age is sleeping and shitting, but that was beside the point.
    Eno and I got an approach to take a two-year sabbatical from the Regiment and join the "Det," an intelligence unit operating in Northern Ireland. I was on the M.O.E team at the time, and Eno was on the sniper team.
    We were having an administration morning in the crew room, dragging our kit out, scrubbing it' and cleaning weapons. The clerk came over and said, "Andy and Eno, the squadron O.C wants to see you."
    "Have we fucked up anywhere?" I said.
    "I don't think so."
    Eno looked as nonchalant and unconcerned as ever; he was so unflappable his heart must have only just about ticked over.
    The Boss was sitting at his desk. "Right," he said, I.C what would you say if I said to you, Do you fancy going over the water for two years with the Det?"
    We both said, "No way."
    The Det had once wanted a Regiment bloke to go and hide in Dungannon, watching people go in and out of a betting office. The OP was compromised by kids, and the bloke got away, but the Det wanted him to go back the next day and do exactly the same. The ops officer of the Det was overheard saying, "It doesn't really matter if he gets compromised because he's not one of us."
    John, who was running the troop, heard about this and went over and sorted it out in his normal persuasive manner.
    Now it appeared that two blokes from each squadron were getting approached and asked if they wanted to go.
    Most of them were saying no; in the end the CO called in all the squadrons and said, "The Det is something that you will do. The skills that they've got, we must have back. We're starting to lose it, yet we're the ones that developed it. One way or another we will regain that skill. It's all part of becoming a complete soldier; we need complete soldiers." He was quite a forceful characp ter. You either loved him or hated him; there was no in between.
    A few days later we were called back to the O.C. "You have two options," he said. "You're either going over the water for two years, or you're going nowhere. You volunteered for the Regiment; you volunteered for operations. This is an operation; if you're refusing to go on operations, you're not staying in the Regiment."
    So that was us off to the Det then.
    In the old days, with a division of responsibilities in Northern Ireland between MIS and M16, intelligence generally was piss poor. As a result, in 1972, the army established its own secret intelligence gathering unit, which was given the cover name 14th Intelligence Unit, or 14 Int for short. Recruits were taken from regular army regiments and put through a course that lasted several weeks and covered elementary techniques of covert surveillance, communications, and agent running.
    Selection forInt, known to us as the Det, emphasized the need for resourcefulness and psychological strength. There was not much call for the physical stamina needed for the Regiment. It was designed to find people-usually officers and NCOs in their mid to late twenties, in all three of the services-who were able to carry out long-term surveillance, sometimes only a few feet from armed terrorists.
    My appreciation of what was going on at the time was that the Det was looking for a role beyond Northern Ireland. They started saying they could do all our forward recces for us in dangerous areas around the world, but that was a load of nonsense. All their training was for Northern Ireland; they couldn't go forward and do our recces because they didn't know, for example, what our mortars or helicopters and troops would require. Little wonder they were called the Waits-short for Walter Mittys.
    The Regiment decided that they were going to get people to go into the Det as part of their normal regimental career. You needed an aptitude, but Eno and I didn't even want to be tested. There was a lot of antifeeling about the Det, a feeling of "them" and "us."
    Four of us drove up-me, Eno, a fellow from D Squadron called Mac, and Bob P from G Squadron.
    None of us wanted to be there; we all felt press-ganged.
    The first person I bumped into was Tiny. "I'm on the training team." He grinned. "You can call me Staff."
    Eno said, "You can shove that right up your arseStaff." We knew all the training teams, all the cooks, everybody who worked there.
    "The next six months are going to be really intensive," the DS said.
    "There is no time off. The only time you will leave this camp is when you're working.
    If not, you stay in camp. There are reasons for that, and we're not going to explain them at the moment."
    The four of us looked at one another and thought, Fuck this.
    For the first couple of nights we were sitting there like dickheads.
    Finally Mac said, "I'll get on the phone to my wife, she'll come down and pick us up."
    We put our running kit on and made it look as if we were going for a run on the training area. We jogged down the road, got in the car, and shot off to Hereford.
    Another time we organized a lift with some of the team who happened to be training in the same area as we were. The getaway was planned as intricately as a proper operation; the only problem was trying to stop people giggling as we drove out of the gate.
    I got home most nights by eleven and had to leave the next morning by six, but it was worth it. I was all bitter and twisted, and cheating the system made me feel better.
    After a month of this the Det head shed got wind of it and decided we needed gripping. We were becoming quite anti and a law unto ourselves.
    Mac got binned from the course, which only made me even more resentful.
    After so long in the Regiment, living in an adult system, all of a sudden we went back ten years, and I hated it. He was chuffed to bits to be back on the squadron; the moment he got back, however, he was told he was on the next course, starting from scratch.
    The rest of the people on the course were not supposed to know who we were, but this didn't work because there were people on the course who had done Selection with us and failed, as well as people from our own regiments. One evening I was-sitting in the cookhouse with Eno and Bob P, slagging everybody down in Swahili. A couple of G Squadron came in, got their food, and spotted us. "Oi, Andy, how's it going?" They came over, sat down, and we carried on chatting.
    "How's it going in the Waits, then? You got your sneaky beaky kit yet?"
    "Men, yeah, it's really good.".
    I made sure they knew we were press-ganged; I didn't want anybody thinking we'd volunteered for this cowboy stuff.
    "Oh, well, see you later," they said. "We're down the town now-it's Friday night. What are you doing tonight? You boys have fun polishing your pistols.' They left, and I didn't think any more about it. About a week later a couple of B Squadron blokes saw us in the gym and said,
    "Remember last week, when you were talking to G Squadron boys? They got a severe fine.
    Somebody saw you talking together and said it's compromising!"
    It only got us more sparked up and annoyed. This whole thing really was a pain in the arse' Because the course catered for anybody from anywhere, the lessons started with things like "This is a bergen."
    They had to do it, but we were spending this month being taught stuff that we'd been doing for years.
    I'd never been so bored. At last, however,"the training progressed to skills that were new to me, and I started to get a bit interested. We learned different surveillance skills, countersurveillance skills, how to give as much information as possible on the net in the least number of words. Their CQB course was pure pistol work; for us, there was no stress, no strain, it was great.
    We'd be on the ranges all day, come back and do surveillance skills or CTR skills at getting into factories and houses. Sometimes it was like a comedy of errors, people getting stuck halfway through windows and collapsing with laughter.
    Everybody was given an alternative identity, keeping the same initials, and the same Christian name, and something similar to our real name so we didn't forget it. Working under an alias, we'd always sign our name in a way that reminded us what we were doing; perhaps it was a pen of a striking color or one that w-e kept in our right-hand breast pocket rather than the left.
    We learned the skills of covert entry into a house to look for equipment. We learned how to follow a man and his family for weeks to find out what their routines were, where they went, who they did what with, trying to establish a time when we could get into the house.
    Does he go to a social club every Saturday night with his wife and kids?
    Maybe on average he gets back at I about midnight, so you've got between eight and midnight to get in. But that's not good enough. if it's ' in July, it's not going to get dark until half ten. So you might have to wait a couple of months, or get a time when he goes away, maybe to visit his parents for the weekend.
    The surveillance had to be on him all the time, to make sure that when he did go to the club with his wife and kids, his wife didn't leave early to put the kids to bed. We had to have actions on what would happen if we got in there and somebody came home unexpectedly?
    It took weeks and weeks of preparation.
    We had to learn how to use all sorts of cameras, including infrared equipment that would enable us to photograph serial numbers and documents-and to photograph photographs. It was a far cry from my days in the camping shops of Peckham.
    I discovered it was quite an intense time, getting into somebody's house-the pressure of doing it as quickly as possible yet at the same time- being methodical and not cutting any corners, because you knew that the result of carelessness could be somebody's death. By the end of the course I had learned many different methods of planning and preparation and had acquired a whole new range of surveillance, technical attack, and covert CTR skills. I realized that I was fortunate, and I looked forward to putting them all into practice over the water.
    Just before it was time to leave, Fiona and I had a chat.
    "I've got five days off," I said. "Do you fancy getting married?"
    "Why not?"
    Indeed, why not? We were a family. By now we'd moved house again, into one of the new estates on the edge of Hereford, and everything looked perfect.
    Dave, the patrol commander from Keady in my Green jackets days, was best man. He did his duties, then spent the rest of the day trying to seduce the witness, one of Fiona's friends. Kate was the bridesmaid.
    It was Kate's very first Christmas. We went to stay at a house on the south coast. Kate wasn't sleeping very well, which I thought was great.
    I got the pram out at midnight, wrapped her up well, and we went walking along the coastal path until six in the morning. She fell asleep after the first half an hour, and as I walked, I just looked at her beautiful little face and clucked like a hen.
    When we got back, she woke up again, so I put her in the car and we went for a drive. I kept checking over my shoulder to see that she was all right. She had fearsome big blue eyes that stared at me from inside all the wrappings of woolens and a bobble hat. It was a very special time.
    In the next two years I would only see her for a total of twelve weeks.
    "Jerking," the planting of miniature transmitters inside weapons, more correctly known as technical attack, had started in the late seventies and offered an extra option to the security forces when they found an arms cache.
    The idea was that the devices would be activated when the weapon was picked up, and the terrorists' movements could then be monitored.
    I'd settled into the Det and was really enjoying it. Eno and I were sent to the same Det, which was working around Derry city and surrounding county. At half past six every night we had "prayers."
    All the operators came in, and we ran through administrative and operational points.
    It was Easter time. We had a bar in a hut, hundred of cans stacked up and working on a trust system. Everybody was getting a bollocking for a party that had happened the weekend before. The Det had a strong reputation for being outrageous,in the bar, so much so that the windows were detachable for partes There was a strange ritual in the bar for any new member that arrived; everybody saved up his empty cans and the Det O.C would come in and say, "Welcome to the Det.
    Here we have a celebratory pint of Guinness." You had to drink it while they pelted you with empty cans. The party was one of these welcoming things for two scaleys that had turned up, but it got totally out of control. One of the blokes had a Duran Duran haircut that he was really proud of; the others held him down and started cutting it; he jumped to his feet and started punching people out. They got two planks of wood and turned it into a cross. They tied him on, hoiked it up, and left him hanging there.
    We put into practice all the skills that we had learned during the buildup: covert searches of houses, office blocks, shops to gather information. It was a kick, without a doubt, going into somebody's house, finding information, and getting back out again. In the hard housing estates, places like the Bogside, Shantello, the Creggan, it was no easy operation to get into places, and it would take days, and sometimes weeks, of planning for a job that might take only thirty seconds to carry out.
    At the end of the day it was inevitable that the IRA would discover that its weapons were being 'arked.
    These people were not idiots; they had scanning devices and all sorts.
    We were all playing a game. They knew that the weapons were being tampered with; they knew that their buildings were bugged. They would use countermeasures, which we would then try to countercounter.
    Another possibility open to us was to replace bomb-making materials found in the hides.
    A novelist wrote a book in which the coffins at an IRA funeral were bugged so that the intelligence services could hear what was being said; from the moment it was published, it became an IRA procedure that every coffin and body were scanned with location devices.
    By now it was the summer of 1988 and Fiona was running around looking for a new house. Prices were going bananas, spiraling out of control.
    We made an absolute fortune in the space of a few months; a woman cried on the telephone because she was too late in buying the house.
    "We'll now buy the biggest house we can with our money and do it up," I said.
    She found us a place while I was away, in a village about six miles from Hereford. The house was bigger but needed some work done to it. It was really exciting.
    I came back on five days' leave, and as soon as I got back, we moved in.
    We got cracking. We went down to the plant hire place and hired everything from strimmers to chain saws for our five-day blitz.
    As soon as it was light, we started on the outside; as soon as it was dark, we started on the inside. At four-thirty one morning I painted the garage door, and at ten at night was stripping wallpaper in the living room. I loved it; it was family life: I now had a three-bedroom detached house, a garage, a couple of trees in the garden. As a young kid I had lived in council houses or my auntie's house, and now I was looking at this wonderful 'lace, and it was mine.
    I had a wife, a child, a happy life in a small village, and everything was perfect.
    The future looked rosy.
    Kate was still in nappies, and just to sit there and hold her was very special. She had my eyes, and I never got tired of looking into them.
    We were staking out a bomb factory in an old Victorian house that was halfway through renovation, with whitewashed windows and bare floors. We knew it was a factory because Dave I and I had been in it the night before.
    We'd cleared the house, pistols in hand, in a semicrouch. The kitchen was bare concrete. Standing in the middle of the floor was an industrial coffee grinder; there might as well have been a sign up saying BOMB FACTORY. We knew they would be mixing bomb ingredients at some point. From now on we would have to stay It on target," watching as people went in and out of the house. Low explosives don't last that long if not protected from the elements. Once a bomb was made, therefore, they tried to use it as quickly as possible; we had to be there to stop that.
    "That's two men, green on blue jeans, brown on black jeans and bald."
    "That's them into the house. Over."
    "Alpha. Roger."
    The stakeout took forever, and we h'ad to walk past the target to try to make out what was going on. Had they finished? Were they still at it?
    "That's Delta going Foxtrot [on foot]."
    Alpha replied: "Delta's Foxtrot."
    I got out of my car. I was wearing a pair of jeans, market trainers, and my blue bomber jacket. My hair looked like an eighteen-year-old football player's-long at the back, with short sides.
    It was greasy, and I looked as if I had just got out of bed and was going to sign on.
    My car was old and in shit state to go with its owner.
    We were in Derry, between the Bogside and Creggan estates. The names suited the area, dark gray and cold, lines of terraced houses going up the hill toward the Greggan. It was winter, and I could smell peat smoke.
    Alpha, who was the team leader on the ground, wanted someone to walk the alleyway that was between the back of two rows of houses. I was nearest and hadn't walked past yet.
    I clicked my comms: "Delta, check."
    "Alpha."
    As I got nearer to the alleyway, I noticed two lads on the corner.
    They looked more or less the same as me, apart from the cigarettes in their mouths and the rolledup newspapers in their back pockets. They were sitting on a low wall at the entry point to the alleyway. Were they dickers? I didn't know.
    The weather was cold and damp. This was good; I could get my hands in my jacket pockets and get my head down, walking as if I was going somewhere.
    As I turned right into the alley and looked uphill, there was nothing.
    The alleyway was just hard mud, filled with old cans and dogshit. The two boys took no notice as I walked past. It seemed they were waiting for the bookies to open.
    It was a horrible feeling going up that alleyway, knowing that these people were behind me. I walked with a purpose, not hesitating or looking behind. I kept looking at the ground, as if I was in a bit of a daze. I was a bag of shit, so I walked like a bag of shit.
    Tucked in my leans I had my 9MM Browning and plenty of rounds.
    If they said anything to me as I went in, I would have to try to avoid answering.
    "Alpha, Delta, check?"
    They wanted to know how I was doing.
    I couldn't talk on my radio; the two boys would hear.
    I clicked my pressal button twice to send two quick bursts of squelch.
    "Alpha, roger that."
    Everyone now knew things were okay.
    The back door was closed, but I could just hear the faint buzz of the coffee grinder in the back of the house; they were still making the bomb.
    People were passing; I could not talk yet, but I could hear everyone else on the net.
    "Alpha, November, going mobile." Eno was off somewhere else.
    "Alpha, roger that. Delta, check."
    Click. Click.
    "Roger that, are you past the house yet?"
    Click. Click.
    "Is the grinding still going?"
    Click. Click.
    I went into the corner shop and got a pint of milk and the Sporting Life. Now I would take a walk past the front and see if I could make out anything inside.
    "Alpha, Lima, I have Delta walking back to his Charlie."
    "Alpha."
    Rich had seen me and was telling everyone what was happening. He had been in the Det for years and was an excellent operator. He often had clashes with the head shed as he was a very outspoken person; however, whatever he said made sense.
    "Delta's complete [back in the carl."
    "Alpha."
    I was now in my car, and I drove off.
    Nothing happened for about two hours. I was still part of the stakeout but not on top of the target, as I had already been exposed.
    This didn't mean that I'd hang slack. There was still a job to do.
    Everything that passed me I had to check it out. As well as see who was in the area so I could report it to others, I could detect the mood of the place: Does it look any different today? 1-f so, why?
    This was not a place that the tourist board would recommend.
    There was nothing passive about this work.
    Only a few months before, an operator was shot near where I was sitting.
    He'd been doing exactly the same as I was, parked up and waiting to go and do something.
    The players saw him, must have thought there was something wriggly, went and got their weapons, and head-jobbed him.
    I was parked in a line of cars outside a row of terraced Victorian houses. I had the newspaper open and was eating a sandwich. In front of me, about a hundred meters away, was the road that the target was on, crossing left to right.
    Alpha was talking on the net and organizing things to make sure he had a good tight stakeout when all of a sudden a blue flash went past me, two up (two in the car). I saw a face looking down the road; he was aware.
    I tried to cut in on the net. "Stand by, stand by. Charlie One is mobile. That's Charlie One mobile."
    I couldn't get in; Alpha was still on the net. I had no choice but to "take" it. "That's Delta mobile."
    I carried on talking on the net, burning up the road toward the target car. I wasn't worried about the compromise factor now. It wouldn't matter if I was leaving chaos behind me, as long as the players in front didn't notice anything. The important thing was not to lose that bomb.
    If we did, we were talking about a lot of dead people. Passing a junction, I looked down left but couldn't see anything. I raced downhill to the right, down toward the Bogside. As I passed two junctions, I kept giving a commentary: "Stand by, stand by. Charlie One's mobile. Down towards the Bogside."
    At last I got on the net. "That's at the Bogside, still straight, still straight. He's going towards the Little Diamond [an area of the Bogside]."
    "Lima's mobile. Lima's trying to back you." Rick was driving fast toward me.
    I found the target again just as it went into the Bogside and closed up.
    "That's possibly two up, Sierra sixty to sixty-five.
    He's moving!"
    "Alpha."
    "November, Roger that."
    The rest of the team were now racing toward the scene. To lose contact with the bomb team could be fatal.
    The passenger was turning around, looking straight at me. I tried to look casual; we had a bit of eye-to-eye contact, and I looked away.
    I wanted the bomb to get to its destination, us to find the new hide, get the device, and put a stop to their plans. To have a contact was pointless; we wouldn't know the whole picture then.
    I was up at him now, and he was still looking straight at me.
    "That's confirmed, two up, very aware."
    We were not going to do anything yet as they might take us to another safe house. But if they were going to place the bomb, we would be there. We just had to keep with it.
    By now I had the skill to give a commentary on the net, telling everyone what was going on, not moving my lips, trying not to catch the eye of the boys in the car but at the same time stay with them.
    "He's turning left. Stop, stop, stop. Delta's Foxtrot."
    He got down to the bottom past the Bogside and turned left toward the Little Diamond.
    "That's now left towards the Little Diamond. He's going into the first o tion left." I knew the c' back to pity front; I'd spent so many hours learning it and walking it; I knew where all the players lived, what their' kids looked like, where the kids went to school. I knew this was a dead end. "That's a stop, stop, stop! stop, stop, stop!"
    I drove past their car and went off onto the waste area of the Rosville Flats, the area of the Bloody Sunday shootings, where there was a car park. I stopped and got out. I had to get on the ground straightaway so that by the time he'd parked I was out and walking.
    "Lima's Foxtrot."
    Rick was right behind me and stopped his car as soon as they turned into the Bogside. I saw him walking into the dead end of the estate. That took a lot of bollocks; he didn't know what he was walking into. Were they armed? Were they ready with the bomb; was it now being brought out and moved into another wagon? Was it going to be an armed bombing?
    As I walked toward the open square of the estate, I saw-an old converted container lorry that served as a shop. Children were running around; women were hanging off the balconies. There were a few cars parked up.
    There was nowhere to go, but we had to make it look as if we were going somewhere. It was no good knowing just that the bomb was in the Bogside, because i the estate was a warren of little alleyways.
    We needed to know precisely where it was and who was handling it.
    Rick walked past the shop and then saw the car. I followed to back him up in case of dickers or a trap.
    He said, "Stand by, stand by. Charlie One's being unloaded.
    That's now being unloaded."
    I said, "Delta's backing. Delta's backing you, Lima."
    "They're loading it top left-hand side. It's getting unloaded into the top left-hand side flat. That's confirmed.
    That's confirmed."
    Rick was walking through the alleyway. As he got further out, he was able to talk. "Alpha, Lima. The device was unloaded, and it went into the top left-hand flat. There were about three people holding it, and there were two dickers. It looks abandoned. There's some boards up on the windows."
    "Alpha, roger that."
    By this time I could hear the other cars in the area, keeping an eye out for other players. They would be watching the entrance to the square; the players might just be putting it in there, priming it up, putting it in another wagon and running it out. That bomb now had to be controlled all the time. It mustn't go anywhere.
    Not so easy in the Bogside, but we did it.
    The decision was made to lift the bomb by having the police raid the square and take it. There was nothing much said in any newspaper, national or local, about the incident. It was just another "find."
    PIRA -put it down to a tout, but it wasn't anything of the kind.
    It was the Det spending hours of intelligence gathering and surveillance.
    The way this was done was by people being in these hard areas and getting up against the targets. If that bomb had gone off, tens of people could have been killed.
    Such incidents made me glad that I had been sent to the Det. They made me understand how professional they were and not just Walter Midis.
    Having said that, I itty Waits. would never admit it: they were still the By now I was a corporal and things looked promising.
    Eno and I were team leaders in the Det and even considered coming back for a second tour. The words of the CO at the time of the great press-gang had been: "What we want is a complete soldier, one who can operate from both sides of the coin. The only way you are going to get operational ex erience on the other side ising to the Det." p by goHe was scoffed at then. But now I knew he was right.
    The Regiment were getting the most highly trained and operationally experienced soldiers in the world, capable of manning a GPMG in a slit trench or walking around an alien environment, blending in and gaining information, and I was very proud to be part of that.
    Eno, Brendan, Dave 2, and I were out on the ground one day, following two boys out of the Bogside up toward the Creggan Estate.
    They were moving carrying rifles and radios wrapped in black bin liners.
    On the net I heard, "Stop, stop, stop." The boys had stopped somewhere behind a row of buildings. Eno came on the net "That's them now complete. That's now complete-o'the of the gardens. Wait… wait… That's now complete the row of gardens-twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six."
    We now knew that they were messing around in the area of those gardens and Eno could see them. As he walked past the fence that ran parallel, he looked left out of the corners of his eyes. "They're putting it in the coal shed. They're putting it in the coal shed.
    Wait… wait… That's confirmed, the weapons are in the coal shed."
    Brendan, the team leader, still in his car, came back: "Alpha, roger that."
    We'd just spent the last three hours following these people around. We'd picked them up in the Bogside, where there was a hide that we knew contained weapons. The Bogside was a maze of sixties-style concrete and-glass flats and maisonettes linked by alleyways and dead ends. The place was in shit state. Dogs barked and skulked; kids hollered and hurtled around on push bikes or kicked balls against the wall. Women shouted at one another over the landings.
    Unemployed men sat on steps, smoking and talking. It was November, and at three-thirty in the afternoon it was very cold.
    We wanted to make sure where the weapons were going to. We "took" them from the Bogside up toward the Creggan, and now they were behind these three houses.
    The Creggan was on the opposite high ground, the other side of the valley, looking down on the walled city of Derry. Unlike the Bogside, it was laid out in long lines of brown-brick terraced houses, a big estate with a central grassy area and shops and a library. By the time we got up there it was just starting to get dark and I could see my breath. I was wearing an old German army parka, jeans, and trainers.
    My hair was still long and greasy, and I hadn't shaved for days; I blended in well. I felt quite happy in these areas now; we'd been on the ground for some time and were well tuned in. And at the end of the day I had a big fat gun tucked inside my jeans.
    These were hard areas, and there had been a lot of contacts. I laughed to myself when I remembered the phrase "passive surveillance."
    I thought, There's fuck all passive about being in the Bogside, following two blokes with weapons, going up to the Creggan to see what they're going to do with them.
    Eno came on the net. "I'll go for the trigger."
    Alpha came back, "Roger that. November's going for the trigger."
    We now had to control the weapons; if they were moved from that spot, we had to know and be able to follow them, wherever they went.
    If they stayed put, the plan was to get them out of the coal shed later that night and lark them there and then on the spot. Either way we would have control. The problem was hanging around in the Creggan for that amount of time. Everybody on these estates was very aware, from small children to old grannies. There was always an atmosphereof high tension. Two weeks before, a soldier had got shot straight through the head, and everybody on the estate was well pleased with the effort.
    Eno was at the bottom of the garden, down a little walkway that ran between some garages and the garden itself. He was tucked in to one side; if he got discovered, he'd just pretend that he was having a piss and then walk away. This was where all the CQB training and skills came in; it was deciding when the situation demanded that you pull that gun.
    He whispered, "November's got the trigger. I'm down the bottom of the path, between the garages and the gardens."
    "Alpha, roger that. November's got the trigger."
    Eno was going to stand there in the dark, about fifteen meters from the weapons. If there was no need to move until midnight, he wouldn't.
    Brendan was further down the road in a car, ready to back Eno if anything happened. Dave 2 and I were just swanning around, me in my eight-year-old Volkswagen GT waiting to respond.
    I parked up. It was now about five-thirty in the evening, and all the streetlights were on. Smoke started to pour from the chimney pots, and I could, smell burning peat and coal. The field across the road was a jumble of wrecked cars and roaming horses. It was starting to drizzle.
    I got out of the car and said, "That's Delta going Foxtrot.
    "Alpha, roger that-Delta's going Foxtrot."
    I heard: "That's Golf going Foxtrot."
    We were all off to the Spar shop down the road. I bought my "blending-in" items-a can of Coke and a copy of the Sun-and lounged against the wall. Dave 2 bought a bag of chips from the van outside and joined me for a brief chat.
    I drove around the block, parked up somewhere else, and went for a walk.
    It was about seven o'clock when I heard Enos voice, calm as ever: "Stand by, stand by.
    That's two Charlies coming in."
    He gave the registration numbers and descriptions of the cars.
    "That's three Bravos coming out. One with long dark hair, jean jacket, and jeans; one with a blue nylon parka and black trousers; one with a green bomber jacket and blue jeans.
    "It's looking all very businesslike," he said. "It isn't a social thing. They're very aware. Something's on."
    I sat in the car, reading the Sun and drinking my Coke.
    Alpha acknowledged. Other call signs went mobile, orbiting around Eno.
    About twenty minutes later I heard: "Stand by, stand by. That's three Bravos Foxtrot towards the car. That's at the cars, still going straight. They're walking towards me. They're starting to put masks on. Possible contact.
    Possible contact. Stand by." Eno never flapped; his voice was calm and relaxed.
    If they were putting the masks on and walking toward him, as far as he was concerned he'd been compromised-but maybe not yet. He hadn't seen any weapons, so it was pointless doing anything at the moment.
    Very casually, he started to describe what was going on: "They're still coming towards me."
    We were getting out of the cars; we had to start closing in, but we had to do it in such a manner that it didn't compromise what was going on.
    It might be a false alarm. They might just walk past and go and do something else; then we'd follow them. As they got closer to him, Eno couldn't talk. I started to walk quite fast toward him.
    Alpha got on the net: "November, check."
    Eno gave him two clicks.
    "Are they still coming towards you?"
    Click, click.
    "Have they still got their masks on?"
    Click, click.
    It went quiet for a while. I was still walking fast. As I got to the area of the cars, I could see down the alleyway. I always used to carry my pistol tucked down the front of my jeans. I remembered the story Mick had told us about the boy getting pushed in the Shantello; the only thing that had saved him as he rolled was having his pistol to the front. I took my gloves off as I walked and threw them on the floor. If I had to draw my gun, I'd lift my jacket with my left hand as high as it would go, with a big aggressive motion, then draw my pistol with my right. I was expecting to see these boys going down the alleyway to Eno and opening fire, but I saw jack shit.
    All of a sudden Eno came on the net. "They've gone right; they've gone down the side of the garages."
    As I looked down the line of the fence, to the right of me was a line of garages. I knew they'd gone down there and were walking behind the garages. They didn't have the weapons; those were still in the coal shed. So what were they up to?
    Brendan was coming from another direction, walking along the back of the garages. As soon as he heard that they'd turned right, he did a quick about-turn and walked off. He didn't want a head-to-head.
    However, he now had these three masked boys behind him.
    He landed up %walking about ten meters in front of them, down the same roadway. He could hear them getting closer and closer. He could hear them talking.
    "That's it-they're right behind me. Stand by for a possible contact."
    I knew Eno was off to my left-hand side somewhere. I wanted to make sure I got behind these people. Then I heard Brendan: "I have from the front. I have from the front."
    I said, "That's Delta backing you, Hotel."
    Dave 2 said, "Golf's mobile."
    Wherever we went now, Dave 2 would make sure he was following us with the motor. We kept on walking.
    They weren't talking and were fairly aware. The alleyway was a well-used thoroughfare that linked two sets of gardens; it wasn't suspicious for us to be there. The ground was pitted asphalt, littered with old cans. Looking to the left, I saw people doing their dishes at mistedup kitchen windows.
    "Golf, Delta, check."
    Click, click.
    "Are you still backing?"
    Click, click."
    "Are they still along the back of the garages?"
    Click, click.
    "Are they still hooded up?"
    Click, click.
    The garages went on for about sixty or seventy meters. As they got to the end, they turned right. Brendan kept on going straight; I came on the net and said, 'They've gone right towards the main [main road."
    Brendan said, "Roger that. I'm going complete. I'm going to my car."
    I said, "Delta has unsighted. Wait. That's unsighted, Delta checking."
    I got to the edge and turned right, just catching them out of the right-hand side of my vision. They were opening up a garage right at the end. But they didn't have masks on. I carried on walking and said,
    "That's the three Bravos; they're at the very end garage, and their masks are off. I do not have."
    I had to keep going straight. This was worrying; nobody had got them now. Were they going to drive off?
    Dave 2 parked up on the other side of the road and was looking down. He came on the net: "Golf has, Golf has."
    I said, "That's Delta going complete," and headed for my car.
    Dave was giving a commentary on what was going on: They went into the garage, put the light on, were in there for a-bout two minutes, mucked around with a car inside, came out, and closed the door.
    "That's them now walking back to the house."
    Then Eno picked them up. "November has. They're now going complete the house [into the house], with no masks on."
    "Alpha, roger that."
    We didn't have a clue what was going on. This was often one of the big problems facing us: We saw things, but we didn't know what they meant because we'd seen only a portion of the action. Why had they got masks on? Why had they taken them off? Had they just canceled something? Had they canceled it because they'd seen us? Or were they just doing a drill? But why practice with the masks on?
    None of our questions was ever answered. The four of us had to lift off, and another team came in to take over; we were overexposed in that area now and might have been compromised.
    When we got back to the briefing room, the Boss said, "We're not going to put a tech attack in. We're going to lift it tonight."
    The other team was now covering the weapons. The R.U.C went down and searched a lot of houses, lifted the weapons, and that was the end of that. We never found out why the boys had their masks on.
    Some of the characters got so much into the work that they didn't want to leave. Some blokes were on their third or fourth tour, completely caught up in it. There were some weird guys there as well, who couldn't cut between real life and what was going on in their work.
    I knew I was starting to get totally engrossed. It was exciting being in the'Bogside on a Saturday night at eleven o'clock, watching known players come out of the pub, lining up and getting their food.
    Even if we weren't working, we'd go down for some "orientation," walking around and getting to know the places and the people. After a while we got comfortable in these well-hard areas and could tell instinctively when something was up.
    Dave was well on the road to the funny farm. The sink overflowed in his room while he was out. When he came back, the carpet was totally sagged up. Dave's remedy wasn't to take the carpet up or open the windows and let it dry out; it was to go and buy a huge bag of mustard and cress seed and sow it. Then he turned the heater up, closed the door, and proceeded to live in a room full of crops. "Want to know how to survive, Andy?" he said to me once. "Never eat anything larger than your own head, anything that you can't pronounce or spell, or tomatoes."
    Sometimes such bizarre things happened on operations that I'd wonder if I was in a dream. It appeared once that at some point in the next few days, at pub kicking-out time, some buses were going to be hijacked from the bus station, put across the street as barricades, and burned. We put in a number of reactive OPs so that when it happened, the H.M.S.U (R.U.C Headquarters Mobile Support Unit) could steam in and do their business-and if the police couldn't get there, we'd be the last resort.
    We split up into three gangs of two and were in positions from where we could trigger it. Me and Eno had MP5s and 9MM pistols. To get as close as we could, we decided to crawl into the scrubland where the concrete area of the bus depot ended, right on the edge of the compound itself.
    If we did get compromised, we'd have it that we were on the piss, so we each took a couple of cans of Tennants lager, the ones with the picture of the woman on the back. We sat down and nursed Penelope and Samantha, keeping our eyes on the target.
    Everybody started streaming out of the pubs and getting on the buses to take them out to their little enclaves around Strabane. There was a taxi rank nearby as well, and it was the typical Friday night scene. All the boys were pissed up, trying to chat up fat slags who smelled of outrageous cheap perfume and were more interested in shoveling large pizzas into their faces than in getting laid.
    The next thing that caught our attention was two women, hollering and shouting with each other, laughing away and smoking. They were coming toward us, giggling about needing a piss.
    We came up on the air and said, "Stand by. That's two echoes [women] coming towards us. Wait out." . The next thing we knew, the pair were virtually standing over the bushes we were hiding in. Then, still cackling and shouting, they squatted and opened fire.
    I was number one on a -oh on the shore of Lough Neagh. The nearest town was Glenavy on the eastern shore.
    The ops officer brought us in and gave us a briefing.
    "There's the general area." He tapped a map. "Somewhere around the shores of the lake there, and going up in the fields in this area here, there's a fearsome hide.
    Apparently there's shotguns, radios, all sorts of shitprobably a complete A.S.U's worth of equipment. We're going to keep going in, night after night, until we find it.
    What I want you to do now is plan and prepare a CTR for tomorrow night."
    I picked up the Hasselblad cameras and jumped into the Gazelle; minutes later we were flying over Lough Neagh, the largest lake in Europe. While we did a normal flying pattern, I took pictures.
    We spent hours pondering over the photographs, trying to look for natural points that would be markers, or natural areas to put a hide.
    It could be in the corner of a field or, say, the third telegraph pole along where there was a big lump of stone. it was daunting. The area covered a square kilometer of hedgerows and shoreline. It was summertime; we weren't getting more than six hours of darkness, which meant we had to get in there, use the six hours, and get out again, not leaving any sign in the fields; all the crops were up and would easily get trodden down and leave sign. And then we'd have to go back the next night. I And the next.
    The ops officer was Pete. He looked like Mr. Sensible Dad, happy owner of a Mini Metro and frequenter of B&Q, and wearer of Clark's shoes, Tesco, trousers and V-neck jumpers-180 degrees from my look of Mr. Bag o'Shite. He said, "You're going to be there all month by the looks of things. just tell us what you want by four o'clock, so I can start organizing it."
    I sat down and looked at all the options. Because this place was so isolated, there was no way we could get vehicles in to drop, us off, for us then to patrol in. The only way we were going to get in was by Scotty beaming us-or via the lough. The only way we were going to get in from the lough was by boat, and the only people who were going to do that were the Regiment.
    I said to Pete, "You're not going to believe this. I want two boats over with some blokes."
    He went away shaking his head. Two hours later he said, "Right, we've got a Chinook coming over with A Squadron Boat Troop. They'll be waiting for you."
    I was happy. "I'll also need six blokes."
    "Okay, there's you and Dave two, and I'll get another four on it.
    I've got a Wessex coming in to pick you up and fly you down to meet up with A Squadron. The QRF you've got are two call signs of H.M.S.U."
    All in all, there were just over a hundred people involved, plus the expense of flying A Squadron over for the recce. Pete said, "This is the most outrageous recce we've ever done. You'd better find it!"
    When we landed in the Wessex, there was a hive of activity at the SF base. The H.M.S.U had turned up. Because of some of the experiences we'd had with the army QRF, the Regiment and Det now always used the H.M.S.U. We had a really good relationship with them: We'd go to their houses; we knew each other; we got on really well. On jobs like this it tended to be the same faces every time.
    A Squadron were on the team; they'd taken all their black kit off, got hold of the boats, and got on the Chinook. They thought it was great. I found them pumping up their boats, checking the engines and putting dry bags (diver's dry suit) on. They didn't have a clue yet what was going on. All they'd been told was to get over here and sort themselves out.
    The H.M.S.U were unloading their bags into the accommodation. They would stay here and come screaming out in their armored Sierra 4x4s if Dave 2 and I were in the shit. They were expecting to be there for the next two week and. were smacking their lips at the thought of all the sovertime.
    I got everybody together and explained what was going to be happening.
    "We're going to leave from here in the two Geminis. Once we get to the dropoff point one of the Boat Troop boys will swim and check the shoreline to make sure everything's all right for us to land.
    "Once we've landed, A Squadron will stay where they are, with Rick and Eno. Dave and myself will then start going forward to do the CTR. The general route we're going to take is along the hedge line here, then start working our way north.
    "You can see on the map the checkpoints I've marked.
    When I reach them, I'll radio back to the boats so you'll know where I am. If we find a hide, then depending on the time, I'll call in Rick and Eno, and they'll put in the technical attack. If not, the cutoff time stays as it is and we'll come back tomorrow night. Easy!"
    It looked more like a fighting patrol than a recce patrol. We had two boats, A Squadron were in their dry bags ready for the swim; two Det blokes in each boat, both in full uniform, bergens on, carrying G3s, all cammed up and ready to go for it.
    We all trundled down to the boats, only to discover that the edge of the lake further down was lined with civvies with fishing rods. I'd wanted to start trogging down the river toward the lake so that just as it was last I light, we'd have traveled some of the distance. Instead we had to sit there, waiting for the fishermen to go home.
    At last light we paddled our way down river until we got on the lough, then opened up the engines. The Geminis bounced up and down in the chop, the Boat Troop wearing their PNGs (passive night goggles) as they navigated us to the dropoff point. It was totally dark, and I felt as if we were on the sea. Finally the engines stopped, and they started paddling in a bit. Two blokes, each with a weapon, jumped into the water in their dry bags and fins and disappeared.
    The flash of their red torch told us that they had cleared the beach. We paddled into the edge, and the boats ' were tied up. We put our bergens on and set off, carrying photography kit and large radices so we could communicate with the rest of the patrol. I thought there was no way we'd find it on the first night, but at least we'd have a rough idea of the ground and could come back time and again and dissect it.
    At about twelve-thirty we were moving up a hedge line. Ahead of us in a corner of the field we could make out the shape of what must have once been an old workshop or farm building. The ends were semicircular and built of breeze blocks, and the roof had been corrugated Iron.
    The metal sheeting was rusty and full of holes and in most places had fallen down onto old lengths of wood, broken bricks, bottles filled up with mud. Sitting to the right was a rusting 1950s-style tractor without tires. Debris lay all around: empty paint tins, rolls of
    
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