Soldier Of The Queen
"Former British soldier Bernard O'Mahoney served in Northern Ireland during the H-Block Hunger Strike. Now, he has written a book about the reality of army life for a typical squaddie - a reality where ideas of decency, fairness and the rule of law were often left behind . . . The army of which O'Mahoney writes bears scant resemblance to the heroic body of men depicted in the writings of Andy McNab and other Boys' Own-style adventures. Instead, the antics of the author and his brother-in-arms are described unblinkingly, habitual violence and the harassment of the civilian population apparently central to military life . . . Soldier of the Queen is recommended reading." Hot Press
"The camp was full of posters of Bobby Sands with slogans like "Slimmer of the Year" cut from newspapers and pasted onto them. Bernard admits however that this bravado covered an undercurrent of fear of relatiations." Sunday Independent
"This is the sometimes-shocking true story of one man's determination to get home again alive and how civilised values come to be the victim in this struggle. While it will be found by some to be distasteful the strength of this account lies in its honesty and in how the author never tries to hide the truth of what he was, nor offer easy excuses. Its uniqueness also lies in the fact that most previous accounts of army life in Northern Ireland were written by members of elite or specialist units. This is the viewpoint of the ordinary "squaddie". Garda Review
"This is a rarity: a book written by a foot soldier rather than by members of the elite or specialist units - O'Mahoney tells it how it was. It is told in a squaddie's words and with unblinking, often distasteful honesty. But then a sanitised account of a dirty war would be rank cowardice." Newcastle Upon Tyne Evening Chronicle
"I generally have little time for the memoirs of British soldiers. They are either tales of "Wot Won the Empire" or a self-congratulatory spin on a "career" spent stiffing "wogs" as part of a civilising mission . . . but this book is a squaddie's story that every republican under 30 should read . . . This might set the standard for the ordinary soldier to tell how it was for him in Britain's senseless dirty war in Ireland." An PhoblachtlRepublican News
"O'Mahoney gives a no-holds-barred account of his activities and those of fellow squaddies during the North's most troubled years. He makes no excuses and although the revelations are often distasteful, he at least deserves credit for his brutal honesty . . . Soldier of the Queen is a complex, often disturbing read . . . (It) has no moral ending and provides no solutions but it is a highly powerful read." Irish World
Bernard O'Mahoney travelled extensively after leaving the army, and in the early 1990s he worked providing security at nightclubs in London and Essex. He wrote about his experience of the violence, drugs and gang warfare associated with the nightclub culture in Essex Boys
Mick McGovern worked on Fleet Street before joining Thames Television's This Week, which he left to become a writer. His first book as co-author was Killing Rage, the autobiography of former IRA supergrass Eamon Collins. He work has been published in the Observer and New Statesman.
Soldier of the Queen
The only wealth in this world is our children. I dedicate this book to my children, Adrian, Vinney and Karis; my brothers children, Adam, Amy, Finn and Natalie. To your children and our children's children. They are our future, give them love and hope; we can only reap what we sow.
BERNARD O'MAHONEY
with MICK McGOVERN
SOLDIER OF THE QUEEN
A Brandon Paperback
First published in 2000 by Brandon This paperback edition published in 2001 by Brandon an imprint of Mount Eagle Publications Dingle, Co. Kerry, Ireland
Copyright © Bernard O'Mahoney 2000
The author has asserted his moral rights.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available for this book.
ISBN 0 86322 278 1 10 987654321
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover design: PCC, Dublin and id communications, Tralee, Co. Kerry Front cover photograph: Michael Abrahams, Network Photographers Typesetting: Red Barn Publishing, Skeagh, Skibbereen Printed by The Guernsey Press, Channel Islands
1
Home Is Where The Squaddies Are
The portakabin door crashed open and the lights flashed on. A voice shouted: "QRF! QRF! Heli-pad now!"
Bunk-beds creaked in unison as I and the other uniformed soldiers sprang to life from our half-sleep. As part of that night's QRF - Quick Reaction Force — we had to be on the helicopter and away within three minutes of getting the call. We rarely knew where we were going until we were airborne. All we ever knew for sure was that someone somewhere urgently needed our help. And in Northern Ireland's so-called Bandit Country with republican prisoners dying on hunger strike we always expected the worst - a mortar attack, a riot, a bloodied body dumped at the side of a road.
I grabbed my Self-Loading Rifle and used its strap to lash it to my wrist. That was something all of us did to stop people snatching weapons from our grasp and turning them against us in the pell-mell of our frequent violent confrontations. It was the early hours of 9 July 1981 at our base on a disused airfield near Enniskillen in County Fermanagh. Another IRA hunger striker, Joe McDonnell, had died the previous day after 61 days of fasting. He had been the fifth to die. Our local Member of Parliament, Bobby Sands, had been the first. His death two months earlier had caused much celebration at the base - exaggerated, I felt, by the need to hide the fear of what might be coming our way in revenge. Pictures of Sands still festooned the camp: juxtaposed mockingly beside them were adverts for slimming products and headlines from articles celebrating the achievements of Weight Watchers ("I lost four stone in three months"). The most popular headline was: "Slimmer of the Year".
I ran to the helicopter pad where a Lynx was waiting, rotors spinning, ready to fly us into the unknown. Fear and excitement mingled within me as I jumped in. The pilot's face looked tense as he glanced back at us. A few others had got there before me; the rest jumped in behind me. The Lynx lifted off, its nose dipping before banking away into the darkness. I was close to the pilot, who was shouting into his headset above the roar of the rotors, telling our section commander where we were going and why. I could make out that soldiers at a vehicle checkpoint (VCP) had had contact with a gunman and had radioed for assistance. I heard the words "Cassidy's Cross" and knew where we were heading. Earlier in the week our regiment had built a permanent checkpoint at a crossroads near Kinawley on the road to
Enniskillen. It consisted of four bunkers, three made from concrete and one from sandbags. However, slap in the middle was the family home of Mr and Mrs Cassidy and their two young children. The control point was in the centre, directly in front of the house; a security gate had been installed next to it to slow traffic travelling towards the nearby border with the Irish Republic. Not surprisingly, the family had not stopped complaining since our regiment's arrival: they felt they were prisoners in their own home and also feared finding themselves in the crossfire during an IRA attack. They had hardly got any sleep since we had become their unwelcome neighbours. Their days and nights were filled with the noise of soldiers shouting and car doors slamming. Disgruntled drivers added to the cacophony by complaining loudly about their treatment and sounding their horns in anger. The obvious place to site the checkpoint had been further up the road near a customs caravan in a lay-by. But customs officers had told the army to get lost: they weren't prepared to work alongside us in case they too bec
ame targets. Customs had clout, whereas the Cassidys had none. Senior officers had expressed regret to Mr Cassidy about the inconvenience. But my friends, the squaddies on the ground, had told him he could fuck off if he didn't like it. We thought that people who complained about us were certainly IRA sympathisers and quite possibly active terrorists. We would punish their Fenian cheek by using our talent for malicious mischief to upset them whenever possible.
The pilot passed on more information. A soldier in one of the bunkers had claimed he had seen a man with a gun on the hilltop facing the VCP. Soldiers had fired flares to illuminate the gunman's position; sniffer dogs were on their way. The
Lynx dipped down and landed in a field next to the VCP. We jumped out and took up defensive positions. The Lynx hovered momentarily and flew off as we set off apprehensively towards the checkpoint. As soon as we got there we knew we had nothing to fear. The squaddies were relaxed and smirking. I said to one: "This is a fucking get up, isn't it?" He smiled and nodded towards the house. He said the Cassidy children had not seen fireworks before, so they'd decided to treat them. I said: "You bastards! I was kipping." I looked up and saw the Cassidy family watching us from a bedroom window, fear on their faces. Another helicopter thundered overhead, its searchlight illuminating them as it sought the imaginary gunman. The sniffer dogs arrived, yapping and barking as they dragged their handlers up the hill looking for the same. After an hour of pointless activity the area was declared safe and the Lynx descended to take us back to base.
Three days later I found myself running towards the Lynx and heading off once again with the Quick Reaction Force to Cassidy's Cross. Earlier in the day - the twelfth of July - the large Ulster Protestant contingent in our regiment - the first of the British Army's so-called Irish regiments to be sent to Northern Ireland during the Troubles - had been celebrating their ancestors' victory over the Catholics at the battle of the Boyne in 1690, an event that seemed fresh in their minds despite the passage of the centuries. By this time the VCP had become a regimental joke. Soldiers would say to one another: "Cassidy's Cross. He's very, very cross." We were relaxed and thought we were just responding to another bit of mischief for the Cassidy family. It was after 11 p.m. and as the helicopter approached the YCP I could see a large number of headlights there. As the Lynx hovered before landing I saw a crowd of people standing in the road. My instinct for imminent violence told me there was going to be trouble. We jumped out and moved swiftly to the VCP. About 30 soldiers and policemen faced a crowd of about 150 people. I asked a squaddie what was happening. He said they had delayed one driver because they hadn't liked his attitude; then two other drivers had abandoned their cars in protest at this harassment. Suddenly about 50 other cars had come from all directions. Their drivers and passengers had all got out, blocking the road. Now they all stood staring at us with sullen hatred. The squaddie I was talking to said: "If they try to rush us I'm just gonna start shooting the fuckers."
The crowd became noisier as people started shouting insults. There had been a huge build-up of resentment at the siting of the checkpoint. Usually motorists kept their mouths shut when stopped at checkpoints. But a lot of the locals had made a point of complaining about what we were putting the Cassidys through. Such expressions of neighbourly concern usually led to the perpetrators being delayed while squaddies inspected their cars' every nut and bolt. This procedure would be done in a leisurely manner calculated to leave Her Majesty's reluctant citizens stewing with rage.
A few known republicans were spotted among the increasingly animated and vocal crowd. I had the feeling that every second was taking us closer towards violence. It just needed a spark for everything to go boom - and that was not long in coming. Our senior officer asked the police to remove the first three cars. We stood behind the police as they moved forward, backing them up. As the police approached the cars and tried to open their doors, a cry went up from the crowd. People surged towards us, shouting and screaming, expressing a
rage that had been building for some time. The police had their batons out and began battering all round them. I felt that familiar adrenaline rush as I prepared to do whatever was necessary to protect myself. We began whacking everyone and anyone with batons, boots, fists and rifle butts. A long-haired man in his twenties was urging the crowd on. I heard him shouting: "Kill the fucking Brits!" To me he was a rabble-rousing bastard and I wanted to get him: I had spent months living in fear of an unseen enemy, but now in that moment I could see him. I abandoned all restraint as I moved towards him: I headbutted a face that loomed up at me and punched another before I got to my target. I grabbed him by his long hair and swung him round with such force that he fell to the ground. Another soldier kicked him in the face, while another smashed his rifle butt into the back of his head. He lay stationary on the ground, blood pouring down his face and neck.
Most of the crowd had already fallen back by this point, so a lot of people witnessed the hammering we dished out. Their anger brought them surging forward again. They threw missiles and tried to force us back down the road. We were heavily outnumbered and I thought we might be overwhelmed. I had visions of being hacked to death; I really thought one or more of us would be killed. For the first time since arriving at the VCP I experienced a feeling of real fear. However, my awareness of my willingness to kill gave me strength: if I was going to die, I had no intention of dying alone. I knew if I felt I was about to be overwhelmed I'd just start shooting. I thought that, even if I ended up being done for murder or manslaughter, a few years in an English prison would still be preferable to an early death. Someone shouted a warning and then I heard the crack of a plastic bullet being fired. The crowd fell back immediately. Suddenly it was all over - the fight had gone out of them. As we regained control I could see several people lying face down on the side of the road. Two civilians had to be taken to hospital; two policemen had also been injured. The police arrested four protesters.
We flew back to base, subdued and shaken. We all had difficulty sleeping. The incident seemed to typify our experience in Northern Ireland: one minute all was quiet, the next minute something blew up in our faces. We knew we would be facing something like that again before long. We also knew that next time we mightn't escape so unscathed.
The next edition of the local newspaper, The Fermanagh Herald, described what had happened as "The battle of Cassidy's Cross... the most serious of any checkpoint incident in the Fermanagh area for a long time." The local Irish Independence Party councillor Patrick McCaffrey was quoted describing the security forces' manner as "threatening and menacing". He said: "It was the Twelfth of July and it appears that the Orange blood was rushing through their veins and they decided they would teach the nationalist people of Kinawley a lesson ... I am calling it an ambush, attempted murder. Rubber bullets were fired. I saw one man being taken to the side of the road and then made lie down. He was then kicked and the blood was spewing out of his head. I believe he was one of the ones taken to the hospital." Mr Cassidy said his children had been greatly upset by the incident and could not be consoled. The army denied firing plastic bullets. The denial made us laugh. Technically the army was telling the truth in the sense that they had accounted for all the rounds that had been officially issued, so none could therefore have been fired. However, outgoing regiments pass on "extra"
rounds to incoming regiments, which means that after such incidents soldiers can usually produce all the rounds they were issued with and so can "prove" they didn't open fire.
Ten days later the army dismantled the checkpoint at Cassidy's Cross. The local paper applauded the decision: "The quickness of the Army's reaction in dealing with their case -indeed the fact they reacted at all - showed a genuine concern by the Regiment based here at present, the 5th Royal Inniskilling Dragoon Guards." I do not suppose the Cassidy family or the hospitalised protesters thought we had shown them much concern. And I know that many of the people I encountered in the name of the Queen during that violent summer of 1981 did not
think I showed them any concern. But at that time I could not have cared less. To me I was in a war and they were all the enemy. The only concern I had was for myself and a handful of my fellow soldiers. I had no intention of becoming a casualty in someone else's war.
The protesters and the other nationalists I battered during our four and a half month tour of duty must have regarded me as just another vicious Brit in uniform. They might have been surprised to know that, despite my English accent, my parents were Irish Catholics - and that some of my relations lived just over the border.
I hadn't wanted to be a soldier, but I hadn't wanted to go to prison either. However, at the time I joined the army those had been the alternatives I faced. I doubt whether I was the British Army's most unlikely recruit, but I must have been in the running for that accolade.
2
Irish Born And Beaten
Beware the Ides of March, they say, only bad things happen on that day.
My mother didn't know the 15th of March had ancient links with impending danger, although she did know something was up when I started kicking my way out of her womb as she did her shopping. The year was 1960 and the place was Dunstable in the English county of Bedfordshire. My mother collapsed in the street with the first contractions, then picked herself up and staggered home to our council maisonette. She sent my four-year-old brother out to summon help, but he went to play in the garden instead. So, as always, she just got on with it. Apparently - it's not one of my memories - I made my way out easy enough and emerged
onto the front-room floor. My mother broke the umbilical cord with her hands and I started screaming. Perhaps I knew what was coming; perhaps I'd picked up in the womb that I was about to move into the domestic equivalent of what the army would call a hostile environment.