One of our operatives was a young man known as Noddy. He was our memory-man. Each operative carried lists of cars, number-plates, names and descriptions of players, addresses – pages of details that were always changing with new intelligence coming in every day. We were always having to check our lists against cars and characters, but Noddy seemed to be able to memorise them all. We were supposed to report over the radio whenever we saw a detail that matched one on our list. Noddy was for ever reporting listed number-plates as he drove around. His brain was a great asset to the Det, but sadly that organ let him down when he needed it most.
It was Noddy’s turn to park up in Bear Cage and watch the pub as I had done the night before. When I heard him report that O’Dilly was standing outside the pub in exactly the same circumstances, I felt uneasy again.
The majority of us were parked on the edge of the town that night. There were not many places to go static in the centre and it was wise not to over-use them. In fact there was only one other car in the centre of town, three hundred yards from Noddy at the bottom of the hill from Bear Cage. In that car, with one of the Det dogs, a recovering alcoholic Labrador named Muff, was Luke. I knew Luke very well. He was the only other SBS operative in the Det at that time and had been one of the nine who passed my SBS selection course.
Luke always did himself down when it came to fears and emotions. Climbing into a chopper he could not resist reminding anyone he was with how unsafe they were and that his biggest fear was crashing. He said the same about E&RE from a submarine, climbing oil platforms, and in fact every dangerous aspect of the job. He was sincere and did not mind admitting it. But most people had fears about those activities in some way or another. They were dangerous. The thing about Luke was, if the shit ever hit the fan, for those who really knew him, he was high up on the list of men you would want by your side. He showed a seemingly uncharacteristic coolness and determination under fire. He was very bright, and even though scared, probably no less than anyone else, he could be counted on to do the right thing. In the Falklands, just a few years later, his four-man patrol was split up due to enemy activity while making their way to a helicopter pick-up. Two of his men were left behind, stuck on the ground without food for eight days in foul weather. The newspapers got hold of the story afterwards and incorrectly reported, intentionally or otherwise, that the men had lived off rats for that period. In fact each man carried twenty-four-hour emergency ration packs which we nicknamed rat-packs. Luke went back in alone to find the men. This was doubly dangerous, because not only were there heavy Argentinian patrols in that area, but the men were weak and exhausted by then and could easily have shot him as he searched for them in the darkness at the pre-arranged emergency rendezvous point. But he found them and brought them back in.
When several shots suddenly rang out, interrupting the cold stillness that had shrouded Dungannon all that week, no one knew where they had come from. A couple of operators reported it, but they were quickly told to leave the net free in case there was an emergency. A radio then opened up and we could hear the sound of gurgling mixed in with a few inaudible words. The Det commander tried to contact each of the operatives to eliminate them as sources, but whoever was gurgling on the net was holding down the send button preventing all other transmission. Luke felt certain the shots had come from the Bear Cage area and decided not to wait until the comms cleared to inform ops. He leapt out of the car and tore up the hill, gun in hand, towards the car park. The rest of us could do nothing until we found out what was going on. Some operatives suspected it might be one of ours parked up by the lake and quickly drove there, but the operative was fine. We were all unaware of Luke tearing through the town alone and in great personal danger from a number of sources.
If he encountered an Army or police patrol they would shoot him without hesitation – a man in civvies running with a gun in his hand was a legitimate target, and they would never expect him to be a British undercover operative. Then there were the gunmen themselves – they could still be around and waiting for such a reaction. Luke felt certain it was Noddy who had been hit, but he had no idea from what direction. He saw the car at the far end of the car park in the shadows and sprinted to it. When he got there he found Noddy lying slumped in his seat. The driver’s window had been shattered by bullets. Blood seeped from holes in Noddy’s face, torso and legs, but he was alive, just. Luke’s only option was to get Noddy to the hospital as soon as possible. He manhandled him over the handbrake and gear lever and into the passenger seat. There was no time to be gentle, he was oozing blood. The threat of gunmen was still at the forefront of Luke’s mind. As he sat in the driver’s seat to start the car, he could feel the pints of warm blood soaking into the arse of his trousers. He screeched out of the car park, passed the pub where O’Dilly had been standing and sped up the road.
By now the RUC had sent patrol cars to investigate the shooting and the Scots Guards, the local Army unit, were also heading towards the area. As Luke made the sharp turn out of the car park an RUC patrol car appeared in his rear. They flicked on their flashing lights and pursued him. As if matters could not get any worse the RUC assumed Luke was escaping from the shooting and was, therefore, the gunman. Suddenly Luke heard shots. The RUC were trying to shoot out his tyres. A bullet hit the car. Luke was an excellent driver and although he was scared shitless, as he endlessly reminded us afterwards, he never lost control. He was driving for his friend’s life. He could not stop to surrender and explain the situation because by the time the RUC had got through their arrest procedure, Noddy would probably have been dead. Luke had no choice but to lose them. We all knew the town like the backs of our hands, and perhaps better than the police. The RUC could not compete with his driving skills, nor did they have his incentive, and in less than a minute he gave them the slip. Other police patrol cars were reacting, but they assumed he was trying to make his way out of the town and so coordinated themselves on the outskirts to stop him. That was just fine by Luke because he was headed for the hospital in the centre of the town. Noddy rolled around in the passenger seat while Luke continuously talked to reassure him.
Suddenly, Luke’s car came under fire again, this time from the Scots Guards, and then, a few streets later, from the UDR. This was becoming ridiculous. Luke eventually screeched into the hospital car park and came to a halt outside the main entrance. He dived out of the car, gun in hand, and ran inside. He was literally covered in blood and the few people in the foyer stopped and stared with gaping mouths. A couple of civilian security guards saw him from the other side of the entrance and made their way towards him. He ignored them, grabbed a wheelchair and pushed it outside to the car. He dragged Noddy out of the passenger side and into the chair. Noddy was still alive but slipping in and out of consciousness. Luke charged up the ramp with the wheelchair and burst in through the entrance doors once again. He was just in time, because by now the Scots Guards and the UDR were surrounding the hospital and moving in, convinced that Luke was a terrorist. He levelled his gun at the security guards in the foyer, who immediately backed off – they were unarmed.
Luke was filled with adrenaline and shaking. The hospital was not safe ground. The majority of the staff and patients were Catholics and not to be trusted.
‘Where’s a doctor?’ Luke shouted.
A couple of nurses stepped into the foyer, but froze in horror along with everyone else at the sight of these two men covered in blood, one pushing a wheelchair, wild-eyed and pointing a gun. Luke didn’t wait for an answer and charged on, pushing Noddy through swing doors and along the corridor as blood dripped from the wheelchair, leaving a trail. He paused outside every door to kick it open, gun levelled, in search of a doctor. He scared the hell out of patients and nurses as he made his way through the hospital.
He finally burst into a room where two doctors were tending to a patient. Luke could not care less about anyone else. His buddy was dying.
He pointed his shaking gun at them and yelled, ‘Fix him. Fix him or I’ll fucking kill you!’
A security guard burst in and Luke aimed at him like lightning.
‘Move and I’ll fucking kill you too.’
The guard froze in his tracks and threw his arms up.
‘I’ll kill all of you!’ Luke left Noddy and grabbed one of the doctors and pulled him over to the chair.
‘If he dies, you die! I fucking swear it!’
The doctors were initially frozen with fear themselves, but they pulled themselves together, their professionalism kicked in and they set to work on Noddy. The doors suddenly burst open once again and a tough-looking matron stepped in. Luke levelled the gun at her as she stood beside the security guard with his arms in the air. But this woman seemed fearless. She looked at Luke and said, ‘Put the gun down, please.’
‘I’m a British soldier!’ Luke shouted.
‘And this is a hospital. Put the gun down.’
There was something about her calm, assertive manner that Luke latched on to. But he kept his gun aimed as she passed him and started helping the doctors. Noddy was lifted on to a bed and they worked quickly and efficiently. Commands were given for blood: everything was now directed towards saving Noddy’s life.
The matron turned to Luke and looked him over. ‘Have you been shot too?’ she asked.
Luke shook his head.
‘Then sit down over there, please. You’re in the way now.’
Luke found himself obeying her. He lowered his gun at last as the activity concentrated on saving Noddy.
After a while she came over and looked down on him. She said softly, ‘They killed my husband a year ago. He was RUC.’
Noddy had been shot seven times at close range by a .38 special and a 9mm pistol. One bullet had passed through his mouth, shooting a piece of his jaw and tongue away, which is why we could not understand what he had been trying to say over the radio when he was first hit. The other bullets had entered his torso, and one went through his thigh and scrotum. But he survived. I bumped into him several years later at the Boat Show in Earl’s Court, where he was running a small Army promotion stand. He seemed fine, but I could tell the experience had left mental as well as physical scars.
Luke was himself a few days later. All operations were halted while an investigation was carried out. Military Intelligence was already working on it and the young Irish communications genius was eventually captured, after which he offered to work for the British. His offer was declined. We had our own geniuses, we just hadn’t known the IRA had theirs. Within a few weeks, a secure communications system was brought in and we resumed our work. All in all, we got off lightly, considering the mayhem the Provos might have caused. Our personal score was settled a few years later, long after I had left the Det, when Tommy Shammy ended up behind bars and Sean O’Dilly was killed.
When Luke retired from the SBS years later he joined the police in England. Due to his background, he was eventually placed in the armed response force and was the oldest cop in it, and a rookie to boot. He was not in the force very long before he joined a section called in to help calm demonstrators who were trying to block the building of a motorway through some woodland. The situation turned nasty and at one point Luke found himself cornered by a dozen anarchists who were responsible for the increased tension between the demonstrators and police. This group’s only objective in life was to travel to demonstrations and incite trouble. By the time other police officers had arrived, the anarchists had beaten Luke to the ground, surrounded him and kicked him unconscious. It was obvious his career was over even before he went to hospital. He’s OK now – his mind, that is. He’s as sharp as ever, but he can only walk with the aid of a cane, and if the series of operations he has to endure over the next few years are not successful he might be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
When I last saw him, he joked, ‘With the compensation I got, it might all have been worth it if I could still get my pecker up. Now that is scary.’ The latest good news is that Luke can get his pecker up.
Luke’s room-mate at the time was an old scouser named Bert, a steady operative with an emotional range from blank to melancholy. I never once saw him smile, although that did not mean he was always unhappy. Bone-dry would best describe Bert. He smoked Woodbines and was allegedly responsible for the drinking problem of the old black Labrador Luke had had in his car when Noddy was shot. Bert retrieved Luke’s car after the incident. It had been there some eighteen hours before anyone thought about it, and poor Muff was still in it. She’d done a good job protecting it from curious locals and had barked and snarled furiously at Bert until she recognised her old drinking partner. Bert said she peed for ever when he let her out of the car.
Bert was only good for surveillance jobs. He had a touch of rheumatism and if he inadvertently ended up in an OP in cold weather, whoever was with him would probably have had to carry him out to the pick-up point.
Bert was very much a grey man and kept to himself, but he had one habit that pissed everyone off. When he was feeling melancholy he would come into the bar and play Slim Whitman on the bar stereo. There’s nothing wrong with Slim unless you have to listen to him. American country and western ballads just did not seem to fit that environment.
We attributed Bert’s low spirits to his taste in music, as the songs were always wailing on about losing a girl or getting hit by a train or a stolen pick-up truck and winding up in jail. After taking endless stick about his music, Bert announced one day that he was not going to bother us with it any more as he had purchased a cassette-player from Lisburn and would listen to Slim in private in his room. The player even came with a headset so Luke could be spared when he was in the room.