Read Online Hateland by Bernard O'Mahoney - Free Book Online
Authors: Bernard O'Mahoney
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occasionally, cows also fell victim.
One night, I was on a mobile patrol roving through the countryside around Belcoo. It had been raining in that special Irish way since we'd first jumped from the helicopter. Everyone was soaked. We decided to have a false 'contact'. If you encountered terrorists while on patrol and opened fire you were supposed to get on the radio immediately and shout 'Contact! Contact! Contact!' That night's Quick Reaction Force would then be despatched to you swiftly by helicopter as back-up. But, most importantly, as your position had been compromised, you'd be taken back to your nice warm bed and a cup of tea.
We all agreed on our story in case of investigation. Apparently, we'd spotted a figure carrying a rifle near a tree several hundred yards away. I laughed as two flares exploded in the evening sky and we opened fire on the tree and bushes. Meanwhile, the corporal screamed into the radio handset, 'Contact! Contact! Contact!'
Back at base, they must have thought we'd encountered an IRA Flying Column. Within seven minutes, we heard the whirr of the helicopter. Soldiers jumped from it before it had even touched the ground. They ran towards us, hyped up and ready for action. Our corporal pointed in the direction of the tree and the QRF soldiers moved off in defensive zigzags to hunt down the enemy, helped by the helicopter's powerful search beam.
Our regiment soon had its second casualty. A soldier was shot in the foot. Thankfully, he hadn't been shot by other soldiers.
He'd shot himself. He claimed it was an accident, but no one believed him. During our tour of duty, the IRA only caused one casualty among our regiment's soldiers: the friend of mine injured in a mortar attack.
That summer of 1981 saw rioting throughout the United Kingdom. The season kicked off in July with four days of riots in the Toxteth area of Liverpool. At least 70 buildings were burned down and 468 police officers were injured. Smaller riots then took place in Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham, Leicester and just about everywhere else with a significant ethnic minority population.
I started going out with a 'Greenfinch' - a female UDR soldier. She was called Elizabeth. Through her, I got to meet a lot of UDR soldiers. Several of them seemed all right, though none of them left me feeling overwhelmed by the desire to form a lifelong friendship. There were, however, several out-and-out sectarian bigots who made no attempt to hide their hatred of Catholics.
One of the worst bigots was someone I nicknamed Billy Bunter. He was overweight, with a red face, and had the unpleasant habit of sniffing when he finished a sentence. His favourite saying was, 'What would really make me happy is if you gave me a pope on a rope.' He continually made a point of telling me not to be anywhere near him if a gun battle broke out. 'Yer man,' he'd say, 'watch your Fenian back if the bullets start flying.'
I'd reply, 'Why wait till my back's turned, fat boy?'
He'd pretend to laugh.
I wish I could say his views were unusual, but they weren't. That sort of demented anti-Catholicism was widespread among the UDR soldiers. Even Elizabeth told me not to broadcast my Catholic background. She said it didn't bother her, but she thought other UDR people might not be so 'forgiving'. It wouldn't have been hard for any of the UDR people to justify their hatred of republicans, but I didn't like the way they seemed to hate all Catholics.
Most UDR soldiers had lost friends or relatives at the hands of the IRA. And all of them, especially the part-timers, lived with a constant sense of personal threat. Out of uniform, at home and at work, they must have felt vulnerable all the time. Behind their backs, we used to call their unit 'the Utterly Defenceless Regiment'.
Our officers never wore badges of rank on patrol and we were constantly told never to address them
One night, I was on a mobile patrol roving through the countryside around Belcoo. It had been raining in that special Irish way since we'd first jumped from the helicopter. Everyone was soaked. We decided to have a false 'contact'. If you encountered terrorists while on patrol and opened fire you were supposed to get on the radio immediately and shout 'Contact! Contact! Contact!' That night's Quick Reaction Force would then be despatched to you swiftly by helicopter as back-up. But, most importantly, as your position had been compromised, you'd be taken back to your nice warm bed and a cup of tea.
We all agreed on our story in case of investigation. Apparently, we'd spotted a figure carrying a rifle near a tree several hundred yards away. I laughed as two flares exploded in the evening sky and we opened fire on the tree and bushes. Meanwhile, the corporal screamed into the radio handset, 'Contact! Contact! Contact!'
Back at base, they must have thought we'd encountered an IRA Flying Column. Within seven minutes, we heard the whirr of the helicopter. Soldiers jumped from it before it had even touched the ground. They ran towards us, hyped up and ready for action. Our corporal pointed in the direction of the tree and the QRF soldiers moved off in defensive zigzags to hunt down the enemy, helped by the helicopter's powerful search beam.
Our regiment soon had its second casualty. A soldier was shot in the foot. Thankfully, he hadn't been shot by other soldiers.
He'd shot himself. He claimed it was an accident, but no one believed him. During our tour of duty, the IRA only caused one casualty among our regiment's soldiers: the friend of mine injured in a mortar attack.
That summer of 1981 saw rioting throughout the United Kingdom. The season kicked off in July with four days of riots in the Toxteth area of Liverpool. At least 70 buildings were burned down and 468 police officers were injured. Smaller riots then took place in Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham, Leicester and just about everywhere else with a significant ethnic minority population.
I started going out with a 'Greenfinch' - a female UDR soldier. She was called Elizabeth. Through her, I got to meet a lot of UDR soldiers. Several of them seemed all right, though none of them left me feeling overwhelmed by the desire to form a lifelong friendship. There were, however, several out-and-out sectarian bigots who made no attempt to hide their hatred of Catholics.
One of the worst bigots was someone I nicknamed Billy Bunter. He was overweight, with a red face, and had the unpleasant habit of sniffing when he finished a sentence. His favourite saying was, 'What would really make me happy is if you gave me a pope on a rope.' He continually made a point of telling me not to be anywhere near him if a gun battle broke out. 'Yer man,' he'd say, 'watch your Fenian back if the bullets start flying.'
I'd reply, 'Why wait till my back's turned, fat boy?'
He'd pretend to laugh.
I wish I could say his views were unusual, but they weren't. That sort of demented anti-Catholicism was widespread among the UDR soldiers. Even Elizabeth told me not to broadcast my Catholic background. She said it didn't bother her, but she thought other UDR people might not be so 'forgiving'. It wouldn't have been hard for any of the UDR people to justify their hatred of republicans, but I didn't like the way they seemed to hate all Catholics.
Most UDR soldiers had lost friends or relatives at the hands of the IRA. And all of them, especially the part-timers, lived with a constant sense of personal threat. Out of uniform, at home and at work, they must have felt vulnerable all the time. Behind their backs, we used to call their unit 'the Utterly Defenceless Regiment'.
Our officers never wore badges of rank on patrol and we were constantly told never to address them
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