RG In Northern Ireland.

Manning a VCP near Belfast.

Shortly after that, I escaped the towers once more. I put my name down, along with many others, for duty on board a Royal Navy minesweeper which was being tasked with the searching of vessels at sea for arms and other contraband. To many lads, for some reason, this seemed a better option than being shot at or showered with shit on the streets of sunny Belfast. Given my extensive experience of, and family background in, seafaring it was no surprise when I volunteered. I hurriedly packed up my kit and set off by Q car for Moscow Barracks. Who would have thought that volunteering for Northern Ireland would see you at sea with the senior service?
The boat was small and wooden, with a crew of large matelots. There’s a belief, fondly held throughout the Army, that the entire Navy is composed of poofs. If these lads were poofs, I wasn’t teasing them about it because they were poofs who looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Because we wore camouflage combats, the Navy amusingly liked to call us ‘trees’, or the more usual ‘pongos’. I pointed out that they were only jealous because their bosses made them wear bell-bottoms.
My first night on board, we were still in dock. Some of the crew got changed into civvies and asked if I was coming into the city centre for a pizza. I declined their invitation and spent the night at the NAAFI bar at Moscow. Even though they were sailors, they were still Crown Forces and, therefore, the enemy to the Nationalists. Their hair might have been a bit longer, and one or two had beards, but they dressed the same, off-duty, as us, in the instantly-recognisable second uniform of jeans, trainers and tee-shirts. Their mainland accents wouldn’t have helped much, either.
After we set sail, I was assigned to the night search duties. I’d be woken in my bunk by a Tannoy message from the Captain, jump into my all-in-one rubber suit, cold sea water in the bottom of my wellies just to wake me up, and find myself skimming across the Irish Sea about three minutes later, hanging onto the sides of the rubber intercept boat for dear life. Most times it would be a false alarm, a civilian yacht which had strayed off course or something similar. We would still board and search, of course. One night, we had received information that a vessel was transporting illegal arms and explosives for loyalist terror groups. Part of me thought, What are we bothering with them for? They’re doing us a favour. The reality was, though, that the majority of loyalist killings were mindless sectarian jobs, so the weapons being smuggled in could be used to murder an innocent Catholic for no other reason than his religion. It was extremely rare, as far as I’m aware, for loyalist terrorists to kill genuine IRA members.
We’d been tracking the suspect vessel for several hours and the Captain decided the time had come to intercept and search. As it would be a night operation my search team would be carrying it out. Orders were completed. I was to be the only tree. I wondered whether the Navy realised I was in the Royal Artillery, and not the SAS, but it was too late to raise that now. With my trusty tool bag and 9mm Browning automatic pistol holstered, off I went. As we sped across the Irish Sea in pitch darkness, I clung on to the sides of the boat with cold wet fingers, idly wondering what chance a rubber boat full of matelots and one slightly queasy Gunner had against a heavily-armed ship full of psychopathic terrorists who didn’t much fancy a twenty-year stretch in the Maze.
How the fuck did I get into this? I asked myself, once again.
You volunteered, stupid.
Appearing out of the sea spray, I could just make out a light on top of a mast. As we got nearer, I could figure out the shape of a yacht. The actual boarding was over within seconds. The Royal Navy Officer produced a loudhailer and announced boldly that we were Her Majesty’s Forces and that they should be prepared to be boarded. So far, so good. Nobody was shooting.
I was first on board, where I was immediately confronted by a panicking Frenchman shouting ‘Pirates! Pirates!’ in a hysterical voice.
Our Officer calmed him down with a few French phrases and explained that we weren’t actually, pirates and what we were there for. We then carried out our standard search of the boat and found nothing but wet, stripey tee-shirts, black berets, loaves of French bread and a couple of strings of onions.
And as things turned out, we’d done the two-man crew a favour: they had a problem with their radar and weren’t exactly sure where they were. In fact, they were dangerously close to the rocky Irish coast so we contacted the Coast Guard and arranged safe passage for them into port so they could find their bearings again and get some garlic and cheese down their necks in safety.
As we bounced our way across the sea back to our mother ship I thought thank Christ it had turned out like it did. At the de-brief, intelligence was still adamant that the real target vessel was still out there somewhere. We just had to keep looking. Well, that was someone else’s job now. Mine was done for the night. I handed my tools and pistol in and got back in my bunk to dream of Blighty.
And you know what, sometimes dreams do come true.
We were to have 24-hours’ shore leave, and docked at Bangor, North Wales. Some of the crew from that area went home.
I considered going home myself to see Julie, but the long distance put me off so I stayed in Bangor on the piss.
I couldn’t believe my luck.
A tour of Northern Ireland and I wind up back in the UK on leave.
I knew Taff wouldn’t believe it either so I sent him a post card.
He still didn’t believe me and said I’d rang someone in the UK and got them to sent it for me.
Even after being at sea for one week, when I got ashore I felt land sick again. It reminded me of when I first got off the boat in the Falklands.
Perhaps I should have joined the Navy after all.
Extract from Watching Men Burn


RN Minesweeper I was on board (Cant remember the name)

© Mack (RG) The thoughts of a Falklands War Veteran.
Rogue_gunner_32_alpha@yahoo.co.uk