who I mentioned earlier, was our team commander, and the rest of us comprised myself (obviously), Freddie 'Mad Dog' Fryer and 'Rupert', a young trainee officer from the Army Pay Corps. None of us took to Rupert straight away, as infantrymen are naturally wary about relying on non-infantry 'soldiers', especially baby officer ones come to that. But, credit where credit's due, he performed very well in training and proved an asset to the team when we deployed on the ground in Northern Ireland. We arrived in the usual manner, but the camp at Omagh was a bit different to the last one we had stayed in.
This camp had everything within its heavily guarded perimeter -two pubs, a large NAAFI, and even a cinema The difference on this tour was that we were allowed out into certain areas of the town when off duty. I found the town of Omagh to be a lovely little town. The vast majority of people there showed us nothing but respect and kindness. I was devastated to hear of the atrocious and cowardly attack there some years later and I really felt for all involved as I thought I must have met some of those who were killed or injured.
The routine we followed was very much the same old routine we had followed in Fermanagh only this time we did slightly longer stints on each phase. Some of the areas we had to cover were slightly more dangerous than those we had been responsible for on the last tour, but the same basic principles applied.
I always laugh when I remember one incident concerning the disposal of our letters, which may have addresses of family back home on them. We were given a bollocking one day by the HQ company sergeant major, who obviously had nothing better to do than rummage through B Company's bins and had found a stack of letters that had not been placed in a burn bag. He took great pleasure in asserting his authority by ordering us to dispose of them in the proper manner. The trouble was we were running a bit late for a rendezvous with the helicopter to take us out on a seven-day patrol of the border. I told the lads that if they took my kit to the helipad and stalled the pilot I would burn the letters and dispose of them before catching them up. I found a small metal bin, lit the letters and made my way to the helipad whilst still carrying the smouldering bin. Then in the distance I saw the regimental police sergeant coming towards me. Not having the time or the patience to explain what I was doing carrying this burning bin around camp with me, I threw it into the skip outside the WRAC (Woman's Royal Army Corps) accommodation block.
I passed the police sergeant with a smile and hurried off to meet the rest of my patrol. Ten minutes later we had just got airborne above the camp when we heard some distant 'thumps' coming from the ground and seconds later the helicopter pilot announced that the camp was under a mortar attack and we had to circle the area to locate the terrorist team. The scene below us was bedlam. There were people running all over the place and diving for cover as the 'thumps' got louder and more frequent. We then noticed a large cloud of black smoke rising from the camp and feared the worst, but we had still been unable to locate the terrorist mortar-base plate position.
On closer inspection we were relieved to spot that it had only been a skip that appeared to have been hit and not an accommodation block. Then it dawned on me -like that terrible feeling you get when you slowly begin to remember the events of the night before -the skip that was on fire was the one outside the WRAC block. The burning bin I had disposed of therein had caught with the rest of the rubbish really well and the 'mortar bomb explosions' were in fact old aerosol spray cans exploding in the heat. This is something I chose to admit to only a select few for obvious reasons and thankfully I think everyone on the ground was too knackered as well as relieved, not to mention in a state of shock, to launch too much of an inquiry into
This camp had everything within its heavily guarded perimeter -two pubs, a large NAAFI, and even a cinema The difference on this tour was that we were allowed out into certain areas of the town when off duty. I found the town of Omagh to be a lovely little town. The vast majority of people there showed us nothing but respect and kindness. I was devastated to hear of the atrocious and cowardly attack there some years later and I really felt for all involved as I thought I must have met some of those who were killed or injured.
The routine we followed was very much the same old routine we had followed in Fermanagh only this time we did slightly longer stints on each phase. Some of the areas we had to cover were slightly more dangerous than those we had been responsible for on the last tour, but the same basic principles applied.
I always laugh when I remember one incident concerning the disposal of our letters, which may have addresses of family back home on them. We were given a bollocking one day by the HQ company sergeant major, who obviously had nothing better to do than rummage through B Company's bins and had found a stack of letters that had not been placed in a burn bag. He took great pleasure in asserting his authority by ordering us to dispose of them in the proper manner. The trouble was we were running a bit late for a rendezvous with the helicopter to take us out on a seven-day patrol of the border. I told the lads that if they took my kit to the helipad and stalled the pilot I would burn the letters and dispose of them before catching them up. I found a small metal bin, lit the letters and made my way to the helipad whilst still carrying the smouldering bin. Then in the distance I saw the regimental police sergeant coming towards me. Not having the time or the patience to explain what I was doing carrying this burning bin around camp with me, I threw it into the skip outside the WRAC (Woman's Royal Army Corps) accommodation block.
I passed the police sergeant with a smile and hurried off to meet the rest of my patrol. Ten minutes later we had just got airborne above the camp when we heard some distant 'thumps' coming from the ground and seconds later the helicopter pilot announced that the camp was under a mortar attack and we had to circle the area to locate the terrorist team. The scene below us was bedlam. There were people running all over the place and diving for cover as the 'thumps' got louder and more frequent. We then noticed a large cloud of black smoke rising from the camp and feared the worst, but we had still been unable to locate the terrorist mortar-base plate position.
On closer inspection we were relieved to spot that it had only been a skip that appeared to have been hit and not an accommodation block. Then it dawned on me -like that terrible feeling you get when you slowly begin to remember the events of the night before -the skip that was on fire was the one outside the WRAC block. The burning bin I had disposed of therein had caught with the rest of the rubbish really well and the 'mortar bomb explosions' were in fact old aerosol spray cans exploding in the heat. This is something I chose to admit to only a select few for obvious reasons and thankfully I think everyone on the ground was too knackered as well as relieved, not to mention in a state of shock, to launch too much of an inquiry into
Similar Books
