Chapters 4, 5 & 6

They are very short chapters. 

Chapter 4. 14 March 1972.

The next morning everyone was ready for the ranges. I did not think they had plans for me, so I just got ready with them and lined up to get on the transport. The rain was coming in sideways with a cutting wind. We piled into the back of the lorry, the tailgate was up.

“Is Deery on that wagon?”  I heard Captain Roberts ask.

The corporal on the tailgate looked around.

“Is Deery on here?”

 I stood up.

“Could you send him into my office please.”  Roberts disappeared and I jumped down and followed.

“Come straight in Deery.”  Roberts was sitting at his desk which was covered in documents.

“You're booked on a military flight out of Gutersloh to Blighty, at fourteen hundred. You will be met by Sergeant Mackie. It’s his job to make sure you are informed and ready for the task you have been given.”

I sat there taking this in. “Then when you’re ready, you’ll be shipped off to Ulster. Do you have any questions?”

“No Sir.”  I had not had time to think of any.

“Right, you need to be at the guard room with all your baggage at eleven forty five. I have arranged for transport to pick you up. It’s just over one and a half hours to the airport.” He stood up and did something I was not expecting. He leaned over the table and shook my hand. 

“Well done Corporal Deery, I’ll see you in Belfast.”

I left the offices and made my way back to the gym, it was still only just before eight. I felt scruffy, I had not had a shave, but orders were orders. I needed to make myself look like a civilian as soon as possible. Most of my kit was still packed, so I was ready to go after fifteen minutes.  I got hold of a trolley and loaded my suitcase and kit bag and in the driving rain made my way over to the guard room.

“We're not the left luggage department.”  The duty MP greeted me. They were trained in being unhelpful; it must have taken years to reach this standard.  I went to pick up my baggage.

“Put it over there.”  He pointed to the corner and I stacked the bag in the corner and opened the suitcase. I took out my cheque book from the left hand side.   Once out of the Guard House, I left the barracks and made my way to the bank. Our wages had been paid into German banks for over a year by then.

“Gut morning.”  The cashier could speak English, which was good for me.

“How much is in this account please?”  I handed over my cheque book and asked for forty Deutsche marks and forty English pounds.  She left the desk and returned quickly with the money.

“Could I see your ID card please?”  I handed over my card, she filled out the cheque and I signed it.

I made my way back to camp and to the NAFFI canteen. After a few cups of coffee and having read Readers Digest from cover to cover, it was time to go. The driver had not done the run to Gutersloh so I read the route card out to him but we made it in time. He dumped me at the main entrance. It was a long low building with not many people around.  I made my way over to the desk and handed my ID card to a bored corporal from the Military Police. He looked at his list of names.

“Are you carrying any fire arms? You’ll get checked at the other end.”

“No.”

“Do you have more than your allowance for cigarettes or spirits?”

“No,”   Shit, I had forgotten to get cigarettes.  “Can I get any cigarettes here?”

“Normally you can, but today the duty free is closed, no civvy flights today.” He pointed over to the far end of the hall, “Go and sit near the door, they’ll call you.”

I started to pick up my bag, but the MP called me back. “I can let you have them.”  He nodded in the direction of his desk, there was a full sleeve of Embassy. At ten marks it was above the shop price, but I had been caught short.

 I paid for the cigarettes and went and sat down. Military flights are supremely unsophisticated. With ten minutes, to go an R.A.F. sergeant, with a clipboard under his arm, came through the glass doors which lead onto the tarmac.

“Two o’clock flight to Brize Norton,” he announced.  “Load your bags onto the trolleys just out here.”  He pointed towards two hand pull trolleys out side the door. There were only seven passengers and only one of them was wearing uniform - me.

 I loaded my case and kit bag onto the first trolley and helped others load up and then the R.A.F. Sergeant and I pulled it to the back of Hercules, which had the tail gate down. The passengers walked up the ramp and found seats, while we loaded the cases onto the back of the plane. There were also about twenty five bags of mail, which although not heavy, still left me sweating by the time we had them loaded and strapped down.

A seat would be a loose description of what we were offered to sit on. They were just canvas strips, strung between two supports which could be pulled down like a cinema seat.

The flight was hell. We had to keep our seat-belts on for the whole journey; because we did not fly as high as commercial flights, we hit every bit of turbulence. The toilet was what could only be called a hole in the side of the plane.

I was glad to be back on terra-firma when we landed. We had to carry our own bags to the buildings. I was glad of this; it saved me doing all the donkey work. The mail was taken off by Royal Ordinance who then delivered the mail to the Post Office. I was not impressed by the airfield but we did not have far to walk to the two storey building. I was at the back of the queue. I lifted my bags onto the long bench and lit a cigarette while I waited for a customs man to get to me.

“Do you have any firearms, ammunition or ordinance?”  I could tell he was bored; I was cold.

“No, Sir.” I was not quite sure what to call him.

“Do you have more than two hundred cigarettes, one bottle of spirits or more than two bottles of wine?”

“No Sir.”

“Open the case please.”  He ruffled around and I could feel myself blushing when he found my dirty socks.

“ID card please” He didn’t look in the kitbag; I was through. It was always great to be back in England, everyone speaking English, you knowing the customs, you can read signs and understand the money without having to think twice and the air seems different, better.

“Corporal Deery?”  I looked around to see the man who had spoken. He was short, stocky, with a face which could have been carved out of an old oak tree. He was dressed in the old battle dress style still in use at training Regiments, no rank, no regimental insignia. I had been told I was being met by a sergeant.

“Yes I’m Deery.”  I still had not got used to my new status of corporal.

“I’m Sergeant Gerry Mackie, everyone calls me Mack.”  He stuck his hand out; he had very strong hands.  He did not grip me hard but I could feel the power. He picked up my kitbag and started to walk out.

“So do I call you Mack?”   I followed him like a child.

He turned round and put the bag down.

 “From now on you only talk to me with your hometown accent and yes 'Mack' will do fine, but you may be calling me worse things before long.” We set off again to his car.

“We will be bunking at Chepstow.  I’ll be in charge of your training and preparation.” We hit the motorway. “We have a lot to do and only ten days to do it in.” I sat back and wondered what I had got myself into but comforted myself with the thought of my get-out clause.

As we went over a massive suspension bridge, he pointed down to what looked like an island just off the river bank. Even though we were on the other side of the bridge to the island and there was some mist I could see it was quite isolated.

“That’s where we will be staying.” We pulled off the motorway and made our way through Chepstow and back around to the camp. He carried my kitbag so easily, it looked empty and he swaggered ahead of me, into a two storey building. Inside was a doorman reading a book.

“Give me the key for room seventeen, George.”  The doorman handed over a key, “This is Corporal Deery,”  he gestured towards me, “ten days.”  The doorman nodded.  I said hello as I passed him.

It was a shock to both of us, as the back of Mack’s hand hit my nose.

“Irish, Irish, Irish.”  I was stunned. Mack’s face was hard up against mine. “You will not get a second chance where you’re going.”  He strode off, I followed, I was furious.

It was a single ground floor room with a sink. The bed was already made up.

“There’s a TV room at the end of the corridor, evening meal is from five, and breakfast starts at six thirty. I’ll meet you at the main door at seven forty five tomorrow.” Mack looked me in the face. “You must think, dream, and even fart in Irish from now on. Everyone you talk to, even yourself, do you get that?” I took a deep breath and nodded.  “And wear civvies in the morning, jeans or something.”   He slammed the door on the way out. I sat on the bed and wondered whether I really wanted to be there and after two cigarettes I knew the answer, yes.

I unpacked a few things, putting on my jeans and best Ben Sherman shirt. I dug out my eating irons and my chipped tin mug, and then made my way down to the front door.

“Where is the cookhouse please?” George the doorman gave me instructions and handed me a plastic holder with a pin.

“Put your ID card in that and pin it to your chest.”  He came out of his cubby-hole and pinned it on for me. When I got back from tea, George had been replaced by another man. I introduced myself.

“Do you want a knock in the morning?”  The man found his list and jotted down six thirty, room seventeen. He looked up and gave me a wink.

I watched TV in the lounge, my first introduction to Monty Python. Lights out was at ten, so strictly observed I had to clean my teeth in the dark.

Chapter  5. Wednesday 15 March 1972.

There was a light tap on the door, I could hear steps going down the corridor, tap tap, tap tap. I got up. It wasn’t always easy to get up in a strange room and there wasn’t much room as my suitcase was open and my kit-bag leaning against the sink. It was frosty on the way to breakfast, but the food was good and warmed me through and they sold news papers from one of the tables. I read in Irish, as I did not want to be slapped again.

Mack turned up five minutes early and inspected my clothes. To be honest, because I wore uniform most of the time and there wasn’t much room in army lockers. I was like most young soldiers, not very well endowed with civvies. You need a suit for church and a few pair of jeans and maybe two pairs of shoes, not much more and this was all I had.

“Go and bring all your kit to room four.”   He pointed down the corridor to the left. I scurried off to collect my bags. Room four was a small classroom with a blackboard and six tables and chairs and a table in the corner with a brew kit.  The milk was dried. I put my bags down and Mack opened up the army suitcase. He started to throw all the army belongings on one table and the civilian things on another.

“Is that all you have?”  I tried to remember whether there was anything else in my kit bag, I could add to the civvies pile, but could only conjure up a pair of sandshoes.

“Yep.”   I blushed, not much to show.

“Okay, pack that crap away, you don’t need that.”   He started to make an address label.   “What’s your B.F.P.O. number?”   I tied the label on.

Return to unit.

Cpl. W. Deery,

17 Sqd, R.E.

B.F.P.O. 36.

I was never to see those bags again. Mack made two cups of tea; we sat down facing each other.

“What colour tie is Tim wearing?”   I was a bit puzzled,   “The doorman.” I thought a bit,

“Blue.”   It was a guess.

“How many cooks were working in the canteen last night?”   I could now see where this was going, I did a replay.

“Seven.”   Mack did not make any facial movements, I watched him carefully.

“What is the registration of my car?”   I could not even remember looking at it. I shook my head.

“What junction number did we come off the motorway at yesterday evening?”   I thought about it and realised I had not been watching. I shook my head again.

Mack took a swig of tea, I lit a cigarette.

“You have a long way to go sonny.”   He finished his tea. Mine was still too hot to drink.

“Come on.”   I jumped up and followed him, as we passed the doorman I noticed he was not wearing a tie. We climbed into Mack’s Ford Anglia and made our way out of the camp. I was trying to take in as much detail as possible. He might test me again.

He drove to Cardiff. I was nearly passing out in the attempt to take in so much detail. We wound through the city and parked up in a back street not far from the centre. There was a shop nearby selling second hand clothes, books and brick-a-brack. Once inside, Mack rapidly went through the clothes racks and piles of clothes on the bench, picking out anything that fitted me, an old pair of boots, a brown corduroy jacket, frayed shirts, scarf, pullovers, and an old tweed coat. Then he pulled an old suitcase off the top shelf with rusty hinges.  Down another isle he found two towels, a couple of tea cups, shaving mirror, some knives and spoons.

“Oh come on there are better suitcases than that,” I argued.  He ignored me. The shop owner followed helping to carry some of the stuff. When he had finished he turned to the lady.

“How much for that lot?”  She nodded her head as she pretended to added up, but I could see she was really working out how much she could get off Mack.

“Thirty bob.”   She looked at Mack to see the reaction.

“It’s for a school play. I’ll give you seventeen shillings or I’m off.”   He turned away slightly.

“A quid and you’re robbing me. The case is nine bob and those cups are collector’s items.”   Mack got his wallet out.

“Give me a shilling change and you have a deal.”   We packed the clothes away, and she wrapped the cups in brown paper.  We dumped the battered suitcase in the car went to a menswear shop.  This time Mack bought me two shirts, a black tie, six pairs of socks, underpants and a pair of slacks. Two doors down, we bought black shoes. Mack carefully put away all the receipts. The whole thing took less than an hour.

“Cup of tea?”   We walked into a café; the heat hit you, damp, steamy and too crowded with tables.

“Name all the items we bought in the second hand shop?”   I listed them.

“What unusual thing did you notice about the woman?”   Mack was testing again.

I pictured her in my head   “Only one earring.”   I ventured.

“Go on.”

“Gold teeth, rings on every finger, and odd Wellingtons.”   I had not consciously picked that up, but as I pictured her in my mind, I remembered.

“Yes,” Mack smiled   “Odd Wellingtons.”   We left the cafe and made our way back to the car and camp. On the journey Mack kept up the narrative.

“One of the reasons men don’t look around at other men is because it’s threatening. That’s why women are better at identifying people they have just met, because they observe more thoroughly.”   We turned off the motorway.

“I need you to start looking, and at first it will seem strange, confrontational, but that’s how you can scan large numbers of people and remember individuals. Don’t stand in the middle. Stand on the sidelines.”

The camp was an army apprentice college, so apart from the training staff, most of the occupants of the camp were boy soldiers. However, two buildings at the lower end of the barracks was exclusively Military Intelligence. We parked outside one of the buildings and went inside. Up the stairs, there was a corridor. At the end, we entered the last room on the left. Inside was a counter keeping us out and them in. We stood for a while, I read the notices. Mack introduced me to the Private behind the counter.

“This is Corporal Deery, he’s going to Northern Ireland as himself, and he needs all the documents.”

Mack turned to me.   “Do you drive?”  I nodded and got my driving licence out. The Private behind the desk went to a drawer and took out a sheet of paper.

“So, driving licence, national insurance card, medical docs, and school certificates.”   He looked up, “bank account?” Mack nodded. He ticked.

“Come behind here.”   He lifted up the end of the counter and opened the door.

“Sit there.”   He pointed at a chair with a white screen behind, then went over to a cupboard and brought back a box of wigs. I was taken aback by this.

“Find one you like.”   He went over to talk to Mack while I self consciously tried on a few wigs.

“Just look to the left.”   He pointed just in case I did not know which way he meant.

I was hustled back out to the other side of the counter.

“They will be ready on Monday.”

“Well, make sure they are, he goes on Friday.”    We left the office and went downstairs, into another office. This had four tables with women working at each of them.

“Jenny.”   He greeted one of the women. The woman beamed back.

“This is William Deery he will be going over to Northern Ireland.”   She started to make notes.

“He needs accommodation in East Belfast, in the Catholic area paid up until July.”

“Bed and breakfast?”

“No self contained.”   She pulled a face and took a long hard look at me.

“When does he go?”

“Next Friday.”   She scowled. Turning round she looked at the calendar on the wall.

“That’s going to be tough.”   She made notes.

“He also needs,”   Mack looked at her sympathetically. “a union card for the Transport Union, a doctor’s and a CUI card.”

“Is that all?”   She was being sarcastic, but it took me a few seconds to catch on.

“I’ll leave it with you.”   Mack bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek.

We left the office and made our way out.

“A lovely girl.”

“Do I need those things?”   My mind was on all the attention to detail, surely I was going as an observer? Surely I would just be in the background?

“Do you want to go without them?”   Mack had stopped to ask the question.

The next few days were taken up with observation, history of Ireland, land marks and maps, IRA membership and weapon training. We covered all weapons, theirs and ours. I also went to lectures covering all the political parties, local laws including the yellow card. Mack did not sit in on these information gatherings, but he would be waiting for me when I came out and question me about the people in the classroom; he never gave me a moment’s peace. Every time we came out of a building the questions would start, but by then, I had started to observe properly.

I was given the Sunday off.   This gave me time to think. Did I have the nerve for this? I could just back out, but I would be letting everybody down, I would be letting myself down and what harm could come to me. I was just an observer, working on the buses, just keeping an eye out and reporting back.

Monday 20 March 1972.

On the Monday morning, Mack was waiting in class four, the kettle was boiling as I arrived. I looked at the folder on the table.

“Keep your hands off that.” He stirred the tea and brought the cups over.

I supped my tea as he opened the folder.

“I want you to know this backwards by tomorrow; we’ll go through it now.”

He handed me a Northern Ireland driving licence, it had been well worn, dog eared. I opened it. The photograph showed me wearing a wig. One endorsement had been awarded, to make it more viable I suppose.

The next set of papers were my release papers from prison, Walton Prison, Liverpool. Four months for burglary.

“We have put this in so you can explain your short hair.”   He handed me my union card.

“You will notice it is dated from your eighteenth birthday and is stamped in both Merseyside and Castlederg.”   Mack gave me a hand typed booklet explaining all the details of the two depots I was supposed to have worked at, including a list of busmen’s terminology and practise. Next was the CIU membership. I had never even been in a working man’s club, but here was my membership.

“Your medical documents will be sent to Dr Thompson, the address is in here somewhere.”   He rummaged through the documents, till he found them.  He put two pages stapled together on the desk.  There were more details, my National Insurance number, bank account and school certificates. Someone had been working very hard.

Mack got up and put the kettle on again.

“I’ll give you till lunch to read this lot and then I’m going to check you on everything.”  He poured my tea. I looked down at the documents, there was a lot there to read, never mind memorise.

“You don’t need to remember numbers, just the bare bones, but you do need to know dates, the people and the place names, just as if you had been there.”   He looked at his watch.  “Two hours.” 

He closed the door behind him as he left. I lit a cigarette and read and I read between the lines; where there were details missing, I made them up. I read during lunch, hunched over my paperwork like a child hiding his answers in an exam. I was beginning to look very un-military with my face not shaven and my hair just a bit too long for most Sergeant Majors’ levels of acceptance. Two junior apprentices sat at my table, I carried on reading.

“Hey, are you a gardener?”  I looked up from the documents. I was annoyed but also pleased, pleased that I was being mistaken for a civvy. I tapped the side of my nose. Before they could ask any more questions I packed up and left.

I was sitting in the classroom before Mack came back, the kettle went straight on and I lit a cigarette to help me concentrate.

“So how long have you been driving?”   Mack knew every little detail of my new life.

“Oh I got my bike licence when I was sixteen, but did not pass my car test until last year.”  I had picked up on that one, he smiled.

“Did you know the cash clerk at Castlederg depot?”

“Of course, old Seamus the bastard booked me in every shift for eight weeks.” He was pleased again. I had noticed and remembered that I had only been at Castlederg for just under two months. We carried on like this for the next thirty minutes. I was sweating but Mack was pleased.

“Good.”  He stood up.  “I want you to concentrate on maps of Belfast and public buildings, things you should know and I’ll see you in here tomorrow at eight fifteen, then we do mugshots.”   I carried on reading, just going over a few things which had been difficult to remember, Mack had nearly found me out.

The next few days were more of the same, but as the training continued, I was becoming this new person, myself, but in another guise. Myself, as if I had never been in the army.

Chapter 6. Thursday 23 March 1972.

We worked through the day, polishing up on all the details and after a gruelling final hour of close questioning, Mack stood up.

“Well, if you’re not ready now, you never will be.”  I was feeling much better. I knew myself, I knew the town, and I knew the people. I just had to go and do it.

“Do you drink?”  Mack was looking at me.

“Does the Pope pray?”  I smiled at him; he was inviting me out for a drink.

“Right I’ll pick you up at seven thirty outside, you don’t fly until two o’clock tomorrow, so we don’t have to leave here until eleven.”

He rolled up on the dot of seven thirty and I jumped into his car. He had, until now, always been in his uniform with no insignia. This, in a way, made him look like a civilian in khaki, if it hadn’t been for his manner.

“I want you to stay in character tonight.”

“Sure, no bother.”  My accent came naturally now. In the early days, I had to think before I spoke but now it just seemed normal. He drove down into town and we parked up in a side street and went into the pub.

“What you having?”  Mack leaned against the bar waving a five pound note. I had become fond of Mack over the weeks. I looked along the bar, I only drank German beer and then only the small frothy beers typically sold in the bars near camp.

“I’ll have a Lager please.

The bar man came over to Mack. “A pint of best, and a pint of lager and two whisky chasers please.”   Mack paid for the drinks and we went and sat down at a small table in the corner. Mack was relaxed and chatty. He picked up the whisky and downed it in one, I followed his lead. We sat and chatted, he told me stories of Aden and Borneo. Before I had got half way down my pint he jumped up, draining his glass.

“Two more pints with chasers, please.”  They were put on the table. I finished my pint in a hurry.

“So what was your training like?”  It was like tickling trout and Mack was winding me in. I told him about the fat controller, a little moustached man who had made our lives a misery by bouncing us round the square in double quick time.

Mack jumped up and got them in again; I tried to get them, but Mack tapped the side of his nose.

“They’re paying - just enjoy yourself.”

We downed the whiskies and supped the pints, each telling our stories, his far better than mine. I was falling behind on the drinking front, Mack taking out nearly half a pint every time he picked up his glass. I staggered to the toilets, tripping on the step up. I also banged my head on the low beam on the way back.

“Come on, sup up, I’ll show you a nice pub.”   Mack stood up. I struggled to finish my pint.

“Good night.”   We were outside and walking up the street. I wondered if I should ask him if I could just drink halves, my head was starting to spin. We went into the next pub.

“Best, Lager and a couple of whiskies please.”  I went straight to the toilets, it was running through me now. When I came back Mack was sitting at a table. He carried on with the chat, I was in crisis, and I sat there smoking not really listening to Mack.

He handed me a pound note. “Go on get them in. I staggered across to the bar.

“A pint of Best and a whisky.”  The barmaid started to pour.

“Are you out with your dad?’  She had the small glass up to the optic, but was turning to face me.

“Oh no he’s not my father; we’re in the army together.”  I didn’t notice. I was just doing my best to stand up straight. Suddenly Mack was standing behind me. I had not noticed, I was past noticing anything. Mack got a hold of my collar and dragged me onto the street. I was confused, I was up against the wall and I was getting wet. It was raining hard.

“What do you think would happen to you if you’d talked like that in a pub over there?”  I was still none the wiser.

“What?”  Mack’s face was up close.

His were hands at my throat, tight around my neck.

“I don’t know what you mean.”   I’d had done something, but couldn’t work out what.

“You dropped the accent.”  He stood looking into my face, rain pouring down. People were passing us as they went into the pub, in a hurry to get inside.

We stood there while it sank in, both of us face to face. In my mind, I replayed what had been said. Slowly my body relaxed, as I realised what had happened.

“I’m sorry.”  His hands slowly released my neck, we both became aware of how wet we were. Mack pulled up his collar on his corduroy jacket.

“Come on I’ll take you home.”  We made our way back to his car and he drove me back to camp in silence.

The whole point of the night had been made and no amount of lectures and warnings would sink in like tonight. I had to watch my tongue when I was drunk. He dropped me off outside my quarters.

“Be packed and ready to go at ten and just go through your things again and make sure there are no items to do with the army in your luggage.”  He drove away. I went to my room and slept badly.

The next morning I packed my things into my beat up suitcase, carefully checking each item. I found Mack in classroom four, he had two cups of tea on the desk and he was reading the newspaper. He folded the paper and placed it on the table.

He pushed his thick hair back. “I don’t want you to worry, you’ve had to learn a lot in a short space of time, but I want you never to let your guard down.” He sipped his tea. “You will have good back up, they’ll have safety procedures in place and if you get into trouble, get out fast, get to the nearest police station, get in a taxi or jump in the nearest army vehicle.”  He slugged his tea.

We sat in silence for a while, smoke drifting up from my cigarette. Mack finished his tea.

“I don’t want you to drink while you're there.”  He looked at me, I nodded.

“If you do get drinking and you will, because that’s the way they are. I want you to spill it, pour it into the glass of someone who won't notice - or just swap the glass if you need to... do you understand?”  I nodded.

There was a silence while we both went through things in our head. Eventually Mack took a piece of paper out of his pocket.

“You’ll be met by Simon Adder, he’ll show you the ropes. It’s his job to watch over you.”   He went into his briefcase and brought out a receipt book.

“Sign here.”   He produced twenty pounds in Irish notes.   “Your rent is paid and the gas and electricity are both registered in your name.”  It made me worried when I saw how much detail had gone into this operation, but like Mack had asked, did I want to go without it. But just how much would I be scrutinised over there?

We sat and went through some last details, about being transferred from Castlederg bus depot to the Short Strand depot, because the depot was fully staffed and had not taken anyone new for over a year so a new face would turn heads.

I sat and re-read the reports and details as we drove to the airport, more to take my mind off where I was going, but also to check I had got this absolutely massive amount of information into my head. All too quickly we were at RAF Brize Norton. We parked up and went into the main building, soldiers in battle dress with weapons, were sitting all over the place, doing what soldiers the world over are good at, passing time.

I had been growing my hair and sideboards since that first day and with my clothes and battered suitcase looked for all the world like a civvy, I could feel many suspicious eyes on me. They had been trained to watch out for my kind. I, on the other hand, felt like shouting, “Hey, I’m on your side.” This was a feeling I would have many times over the coming months. I followed Mack through the hall. Eventually we found a Flight Sergeant who was expecting me.

“Ah, Mr W. Deery for the Belfast flight, you’re on the two o’clock.” He looked at his watch. “Well we're busy today; we have five flights to Belfast, so keep your eyes open.”

Then he looked at Mack.  “I’ll keep him right.”  He walked away. I lit a cigarette, I was nervous and Mack could see it. He walked up to the canteen and got two teas.

“You’ll be fine, just remember your field craft, don’t talk about yourself and watch everyone.”

Mack looked at his watch, he had things to do. He stuck his hand out which took me by surprise. I still had a cigarette in my hand, so I dropped it. His hand was strong and dry, my hand was damp but he held it while we said goodbye.  Then he turned on his heels and walked off. I went over to the canteen and bought a newspaper, the woman inspected the Irish pound note very closely.

This flight was much worse. The only seat available to me since I was last to get on, was in between two very large squaddies who obviously did not like the look of the filthy civvy with the Irish accent. We landed at RAF Aldergrove, each man carrying his own luggage to the waiting customs men. I only had three packets of duty-free and had no weapon, but he still searched me thoroughly.

I walked through the long hut to the exit, feeling a bit lost. It was raining hard as I stood at the entrance trying to keep out of the way of the soldiers who were loading up into three tonners.

I saw Simon as soon as he came into the car park. He was as I imagined he would be. Tall, an athletic public school type, he zipped through the parked lorries and pulled up at the front door, no thought of taking one of the parking bays.

“Are you Deery?”  I had picked up my case and was already walking to the back of his car; he opened the boot to allow me to place my case inside. He looked me up and down. “Do you want a wig?”  My hair had grown some but still had that look, quite out of fashion. We jumped in the car and belatedly Simon stuck his hand out.

“Sorry, I’m Lt. Simon Adder, but you must call me Simon, it’s my job to make sure you have all the things you need.”

He pulled away and headed for Holywood Barracks. As we drove he talked.

“It’s chaos at the moment, I’ve only been here three weeks and my job is to control four men in the field.”   He turned to have a quick glance at me.  “We don’t really have enough men out there.”  He pulled onto the dual carriage way and quickly gained a lot of speed.

“You will be staying at the camp for the first few days. There are a few last minute things and I want to take you around as much as possible, show you the sights and I do want you to think about wearing a wig.”

He had another quick glance to see how this was going. “You can take it off after a few weeks.”

 We had not been driving long, when we pulled into the entrance to the barracks. Simon showed his ID card and we were let through. He pulled up at one of the blocks and we unloaded my case. I followed him into the building.

“This is your room.”  He opened the door. There were four beds, one of which had no blankets.

“I’ll get that sorted for you, but I want you to come with me for now and I’ll show you the Ops room and bring you up to date.”

We closed the door and I followed him.

“That building over there is the cookhouse.”  We walked over to a two storey building covered in aerial masts. We went straight up the stairs, and into a large office.

On the walls were maps of Belfast with such detail that they showed even the shape of the back yards and individual lamp posts. There were a mixture of officers and other ranks either listening or talking to radios. I recognised Captain Roberts; he was on the phone and had not seen me.  I carried on looking at the information boards. It was all stuff I had seen before but with a bit more detail, some of the mug shots had red pen through them with the word DEAD.

“How are you doing Deery?”  Captain Roberts had noticed me.

“Fine Sir.”  I tried to smile, but he saw through that.

“You will be a bit nervous.”  He pointed to a seat next to him. I sat down.

“Yes just a bit.”

“Remember, you’re only doing observation, most of the time you will just be another conductor on the buses.”   Captain Roberts’s phone rang. Simon gave me a cup of tea while I waited.

“As I was saying,”  he went straight back in where he’d left off,  “It’s low key, just keep an eye out and report in every night.”

He fished around on his desk and found what he was looking for and re-read the information.

“I see they have placed you directly opposite the police station.”  He read some more.  “You have an interview on Monday at the bus depot.”

He put the piece of paper down.  “Well I suppose Simon wants to show you quite a few things, so I’ll let you get on.”  I was dismissed as he picked up the phone.

Simon beckoned me over to the other side of the room. He leaned against the bench.

“Let's get your temporary ID card sorted and your bedding and then we’ll go for a ride, just to get the feel of the town.”

As we walked to the Quartermaster’s store, Simon told me about a shooting the night before.

Once the bedding had been sorted out, we picked up a temporary ID card for me. It had no photograph on it, so had to be used in conjunction with my driving licence. For the next four hours we drove around Belfast, which was surprisingly small. He showed me all the buildings I would be expected to know. We drove past where I would be living. I took heart from the fact that it was directly opposite a police station, which had three major lookout posts. That night I sat and read the latest reports, dossiers on IRA units and where all the army units had made camp. There was even a Squadron of Sappers in the bus depot I would be working at.