Title: Rifleman ‘W’ 1 RGJ

Subject: Springfield Road: Sleeping the Sleep of the Dead.

I was on attachment at the RUC station on Springfield Road in West Belfast in the early days of the troubles. I remember the station was very near the junction with the Falls Road. This ran both ways at the nearby crossroads; to the left as you looked at it was the bit of the Falls which led up to the Divis. As you might well imagine, being slap bang in the middle of a fiercely Republican area, we came in for a fair bit of stick from the locals.

I felt sorry for the ‘green bottles’ as we called the RUC as they had to live through this all the time, whereas we, the soldiers, could go home after four months and then not come back for 6, 8, even 12 months. If we thought that we had it tough, spare a thought for those poor b*%t%$ds being there all the time.

This one particular day was a Friday and we had had had a real kicking over the previous week, with the Falls boyos being out on the streets, morning, noon and night with bricks, slabs of concrete, petrol bombs; anything really that they could find to throw. We, in common with most of the other regiments in that part of Ulster, were well under the cosh and suffered a lot of injuries. From memory, we had lads with broken or lacerated ankles – the bastards would skim roof tiles and the like at our feet, ankles and shins – cut faces, bruised heads, bloody noses and lost teeth. It was a rough time for us all and, at times, we gave as good as we got.

Our Company OC, a Major who I liked and don’t wish to give his name used to say to us ‘Gentlemen; the watchword is restraint.’ Sometimes we showed that; sometimes we didn’t. When you see a mate go down, white-faced and gasping with pain and you can see the bastard that hurt him, you forgot all about restraint and you reciprocated the pain; if you get my drift ?

Anyway, we were kicked out of our pits [beds] at around 03:30 and force-fed some ACC crap and then we ‘starburst’ out of the big gates and in three groups of four men headed right and then left towards the Divis and we went firm near the bad arse tower block a little after 04:30. Our brief was to patrol along there and nip any trouble in the bud. Why so early ? Because the boyos liked to get up a bit earlier than normal, get their pre-prepared petrol bombs and piles of rocks ready for the day’s festivities. If we could get there early enough and find their stashes of ‘weapons’ in a derelict house or some lock-up garage, we could prevent some poor squaddie’s injuries later in the day.

To cut a long story short; we went back to the RUC station at about 09:00 having seen nothing more dangerous than the packs of dogs which roamed the area and the odd milkman. I was cleaning my SLR and drinking Sarn’t Major’s brew (an evil concoction of very, very strong tea, heavily sugared and crammed full of condensed milk) when we were crashed out as rioting was taking place in the Divis area. This went on until early evening and then, as mysteriously as it started, it stopped and we left the area, which was covered in bricks and stones and smashed glass and the stench of petrol and returned to base. I was absolutely knackered and just wanted to grab some sleep; I wasn’t even hungry as someone had stuffed a corned beef ‘doorstop’ into my hand during the rioting and I stuffed it into my mouth sideways and gobbled it down. We had all made our weapons ‘safe’ in the yard and trudged inside with blackened faces and runny eyes and noses.

We can’t have been there for longer than thirty minutes when an NCO came in and said something along the lines of: ‘The green custards are taking a hammering round the corner; back out in 5, lads.’ We called the Green Howards all sorts of names and this was one of them and there was no love lost between the two ’Greens.’ We got back to the station for the second time well into Saturday morning and at this stage, we had gone almost 24 hours without sleep. Those 24 hours were hours of constant tension, heightened senses and sheer mayhem. After making my weapon safe in the yard again, I went straight to the sleeping room – declining that evil tea – climbed into the top bunk, loosened my webbing, left my boots on and fell instantly asleep, grimy face and all.

I woke up to the usual blue haze of cigarette smoke, sitting below the ceiling which was close to my face and felt disgustingly knackered and disgustingly filthy and bursting for a piss. I went to the urinals and nearly didn’t make it as I fumbled with buttons and all; if I tell you that I was urinating for well over a minute, I exaggerate not ! I couldn’t believe that I could piss for so long; the relief was absolutely wonderful and I can still smile, 30-odd years later, at the sheer pleasure of relieving myself. I wandered over to where the ‘green bottles’ had a small tea and snacks area and looked around for the Saturday newspapers. I can remember as though it were yesterday that my team – Leeds United, a fact which got the London lads taking the piss out of me at every opportunity – were playing West Brom that day. Imagine my shock, when I saw, on the table in front of me, the SUNDAY newspapers !

I had slept all through the Saturday and woken up on Sunday morning. Thanks to some act of fate – no riots and no trouble – and some kindly Colour Sergeant, we had been allowed to sleep off the effects of a 24 hour duty.

There weren’t many moments of kindness again like that; there were, however, many instances of constant tension and exhaustion. But then, this was Belfast and this was the troubles.