On Patrol

Lessons No Exercise Could Teach

Every soldier eventually reaches the point where training ends and reality begins. For me, that point was Northern Ireland.

After leaving Berlin I was given a short period of leave. I returned to my family, who had now moved from Liverpool to Runcorn. The subject of my next posting was rarely discussed until my departure approached. Then the atmosphere changed.

My family had seen the same television reports that I had. Northern Ireland was regularly presented through images of violence.
Sectarian riots. Shootings. Bombings.

I had also heard first-hand accounts from friends who had already served there. Some of their experiences never appeared in newspapers or television reports.I chose not to share those details with my family. Looking back, I realise that conflicts are rarely as simple as they appear from a distance.

The day of departure was emotional. I had recently married and was leaving my wife behind. She was convinced she might never see me again. I remember kissing my ageing grandmother goodbye. I never saw her again.

At the time, I assumed there would always be another visit. Another conversation. Another cup of tea. Life does not always give us that promise.

The Liverpool to Belfast ferry crossing was rough. The Irish Sea lived up to its reputation, and many passengers spent much of the journey looking distinctly unwell as they searched desperately for the nearest toilet. It was not the most encouraging introduction.

Perhaps understandably, my imagination was already running ahead of reality. I pictured armoured vehicles, heavily armed soldiers and a hostile city waiting at the dockside. The reality was very different.

Before we disembarked, a Military Movements Officer gathered the soldiers who were travelling in civilian clothing and organised transport to our various destinations. As we walked down the gangway, I recalled the news reports. I looked around expecting something dramatic. Instead, I saw a handful of soldiers wearing flak jackets, carrying rifles, and a few Royal Ulster Constabulary officers moving calmly through the area. The transport waiting for us was not an armoured convoy. It was a standard Army olive green coach.

As we travelled through Belfast, I was struck by how familiar it seemed. Victorian stone buildings. Rows of terraced houses. Busy streets. In many ways it reminded me of Liverpool. Life appeared remarkably ordinary. Yet I knew beneath that ordinary appearance existed something far more complicated.

After several weeks of operational training, I was posted to my unit at Mahon Road Security Force Base in Portadown, County Armagh. The base had originally been constructed for the Ulster Defence Regiment. As the Troubles intensified and more British forces were deployed, it expanded to accommodate additional personnel.The accommodation reflected the reality of the situation. Temporary wooden buildings surrounded by wire. Reinforced roofs to deter mortar bombs. Security measures everywhere.

Even the shower cubicles carried reminders of the conflict. There were bullet holes in the plastic cubicle walls. By Northern Ireland standards, however, it was considered a relatively secure location. Other bases operating in more hostile areas faced far greater dangers.

Life was very different from Berlin.

 

Bandit Country

South Armagh became known as "Bandit Country". Its geography, proximity to the Irish border and strong republican support made it particularly difficult for security forces to operate. Road movement became dangerous. Helicopters became essential. For many operations, soldiers were inserted and extracted by air because roads could not be relied upon.

One of my first encounters with a suspected terrorist occurred after an arrest operation by in South Armagh. As we waited for the helicopter transporting the arrest team to arrive, I found myself wondering what he would look like. My imagination was shaped by military experience. Surely someone involved in terrorism would appear different? They carried weapons. They handled explosives. They operated in organised groups. Perhaps they would somehow look like the enemy.
I was wrong.

The Gazelle helicopter approached quickly, landing before disappearing almost as rapidly. The soldiers, from one of the notoriously tougher Scottish regiments, moved with speed and precision. The arrested man was brought through the gate with his hands secured. The person standing before me was not what I expected.

He was young.
Thin.
Pale.
With long hair and wearing jeans and a sweater.

He looked more like one of the troublesome youths I had encountered on Liverpool streets than someone involved in terrorist activity.
That moment challenged an assumption I did not realise I carried. In training exercises, the enemy was always obvious. Northern Ireland taught me that reality is far more complicated. The enemy could look like anyone. But it also taught me another lesson.
Suspicion must never replace judgement.

The man was frightened. Anyone suddenly awakened in the early hours by armed soldiers would be. Our role was not punishment. Our role was professional. We recorded details of the arrest, photographed injuries, completed documentation and transferred him into police custody. Only later did we learn that this individual had been connected with serious terrorist activity. The contrast was difficult to comprehend. A person who appeared ordinary had been responsible for acts that had caused suffering and death.

Northern Ireland repeatedly demonstrated that appearances could deceive. The greatest battles were not always fought between clearly defined opponents. Often they took place within ordinary communities, among ordinary people, with consequences that lasted for generations.

When Walls Come Down

Northern Ireland taught me that the greatest conflicts are not always fought with rifles and explosives. Some of the fiercest battles are fought silently within the human heart. I arrived in the Province as a young soldier expecting to confront an external enemy. Instead, I discovered lessons about fear, loyalty, courage, forgiveness and myself.

Berlin had shown me a city divided by walls.
Northern Ireland showed me that the deepest walls are often built within people.
Yet it also showed me something else. Walls can come down. Hatred can be replaced by reconciliation. The past can be acknowledged without becoming a prison.

The soldier who had learned discipline, the young man who had struggled with freedom, was beginning to understand something far greater. True strength is not found only in controlling circumstances. It is found in allowing character to be shaped within them.

My journey was far from complete. Liverpool had shown me my neighbourhood. The Army had shown me discipline. Berlin had shown me the world.

Northern Ireland was beginning to show me the human heart.