Soldier Of The Queen by Bernard O'Mahoney

Author:Bernard O'Mahoney
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-12-03T17:24:33.214603+00:00

12

Contact! Contact! Contact!

Bobby Sand died on the Tuesday. The Fermanagh Provos took their revenge on the Saturday.

I was lying on my bed in our sleeping quarters, reading someone else's tabloid newspaper. The other members of that night's Quick Reaction Force were either lying on their beds or sitting in twos and threes around the room, talking quietly and seriously. Bobby Sands's death and our thoughts about its possible consequences had removed all lightness from the atmosphere. Everyone expected something unpleasant just around the corner. Phil Collins, as always, provided the background music: ". . . coming in the air tonight, oh Lord,

oh Loooorrddd. . It was around 10.30 p.m., too early to bother trying to sleep. I half expected we'd get called out at some point that night. I imagined the local republicans getting tanked up in the pubs to mark the passing of their MP. They would soon be spilling out onto the streets looking for targets they could vent their anger on.

I threw the newspaper down and sat up just as the door flew open. A soldier shouted: "Heli-pad! Heli-pad! They've attacked Rosslea!" We burst into activity, grabbing our weapons and running out the door into the slumbering camp. A few hundred yards away on the heli-pad I could see the rotors of the Lynx in full frenetic spin. I threw myself into the helicopter and huddled down in the seat behind the pilot. Within seconds everyone was aboard and the Lynx lifted up smoothly. Then, as it passed the roofs of the watchtowers, a powerful thrust from the engine sent the sleek machine zooming off into the darkness.

"Mortar attack. Rosslea," shouted the brick commander. I felt my stomach slipping an inch - I knew almost all the soldiers at Rosslea, although I had no close friends there. It was one of the smallest and most vulnerable camps, usually described as a joint RUC/Army base. In fact it was little more than an old police station based in what looked like a normal four-bedroom family house with four Portakabins in the garden. A barbed wire fence surrounded the camp, which stood alone, apart from a pig farm next door. I had been there a few times and each time had felt relieved to get back to St Angelo, which by comparison was an impregnable fortress. The person I knew best at Rosslea was Edwards, a Catholic from Liverpool. I had been through basic training with him and liked him. He was quiet, tending to keep himself to

himself, but he could be a good laugh. I felt anxious for him and hoped he was not now "fertiliser" — our slang for the dead victims of explosions.

The pilot was in contact with Rosslea and through the information he relayed to our brick commander I could tell the base was in total panic. People were shouting and screaming down the radio. I looked out of the window. At first I could see nothing, only blackness, but within a few minutes an orange glow appeared in the distance.

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