The Belfast finishing-school
By Ken Lake Ex Royal Marine
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Ken Lake served 4 tours in Northern Ireland when the 'troubles' were at there peak. He professes to having matured on the streets of Belfast and learned responsibility and something about human nature.Having become a fitness instructor he turned to writing and found that the experiences he learned in Belfast nurtured a desire to express his frustrations at pointless war and conflict. His first book 'a pawn for the queen' was nominated by the national library of Malta for the international Impac Dublin literary award. These pages are excerpts from his phase one autobiography 'the trains, boats and bullets of a fitness instructor'. He has also just finished another book called 'the greatest sense,' which is a fiction work that also features a story line that is hewn from the troubles. A pawn for the queen can be ordered from www.concept2malta.com or contact Britain's small wars. Please note that this web site receives no profit from the sale of this book. |
Traveling on the train that late August day in 1971 toward the Royal Marine training depot at Deal in Kent, I really wasn't aware of what or who exactly the Royal Marines really were. Whatever they were and whatever they did it was surely better than the mind-blowing boredom serving as an apprentice at a boiler-making factory. I'd always wanted to be a professional footballer and having played for the county and having positive comments levelled at me from several people at several Pro club trials, my enthusiasm was bursting. I was also unbeaten as an amateur boxer but my ambitions to a sporting career took some wicked ricochets when three unplanned events 'happened.'
The first event occurred when I broke my leg playing college soccer, and this gave a welcome excuse for me to allow this handicap to influence my life academically. In turn I failed my apprentice exams. Whatever the outcome of those exams, I knew my destiny wasn't watching lathe chucks turning or welding chunks of metal plate together.
The second special career-altering incident occurred during the lunch break at my factory where I had secreted myself inside the workshop to 'play' with the (out of bounds to all apprentices), forklift. The official lap record was about to be broken as I scuttled around my makeshift obstacle course when the forks sliced through a dividing wall and enlarged the workshop considerably by joining it with the connecting metal storage shop. The angry, red-faced managing director of the boiler making company held an enquiry and then suddenly made a suggestion for me to join the army, but didn't the fool realise I hailed from a noble naval ancestry. I was informed at the end of the dramatic meeting to reconsider my options urgently and preferably in another employment. During this career-scrutinizing period, along came event number 3 that finally nailed my career choice. Illegally opening up a cigarette machine with all the subtlety of a two-fingered drunken surgeon with three other skinheads on a wet Saturday night, we felt arrogantly invincible. Shockingly our immature and pathetic theft came to a halt when two siren-screaming police squad cars roared up just in front of us. I needed some fast thinking, fast footwork and a faster escape. Thankfully, I became 50% of the gang that eventually escaped but hiding in a wet compost heap at the bottom of a residential garden tossed up some interesting options. Do something with my life or be relocated into lodgings with a small room, bunk beds, big lock, and no key. I made up my mind as I deliberated my hour-long predicament whilst the police continued to search for us. Yes, I was going to join the Royal Marines.
On that 1971 train journey, my exploration of the world hadn't encompassed air travel and the furthest afield that I'd traveled was to watch the TT racing on the Isle of Man with my family. At barely 17 I was about to enter the man's world and within 8 months of that train journey I would jump out of my first ever fixed wing flight with the aid of a sports parachute. The next few years would also see me traveling on helicopters, tanks, commando carriers, assault ships and more. My calling had whistled.
In 1972 just after I had completed my training, Northern Ireland was becoming practically un-manageable, Bloody Sunday had fuelled a new degree of unbelievable hatred between the Protestant and Catholic communities. Over 100 British soldiers would be killed and more than 200 civilians would lose their lives that same year. Something had to be done, so the Government mounted Operation Motorman. The operation was to saturate Northern Ireland with even more British troops and smash the 'no-go' areas and try and restore some security credibility. I was 18 years and 3 months old and still a green-horned, somewhat immature lad when I stepped off of LSL Sir Galahad into Belfast with K Company, 42 Commando. Sadly, Galahad was later to burn with heavy loss of British Army lives years later in the Falklands war.
As we traveled to our new barracks in Flax Street Mill in the Ardoyne estate, I stared into the streets and saw a town crying out loudly in pathetic despair. Signs of war were tangible everywhere, sandbagged police stations, and nervous policeman holding sub machine guns. British soldiers mounted .50 calibre, heavy Browning machine guns on top of desert-camouflaged and hastily retrieved armoured Saracens. At first glance, the armoured vehicle in the typical looking British streets looked crazy and out of place. The people caught my attention, watching the fear and despair out of the bus with my loaded rifle, feeling a mixture of apprehension, fear and excitement, my life was about to change and never be the same again. On my first patrol, within hours of the unit's arrival, an old, kindly looking man passing by on a double-decker bus smiled at me and he made a pistol with his fingers indicating that I would get shot. I realised a huge gulf existed between safe, suburban Bracknell and the stricken town of Belfast. During the next few days, there were bombs and bullets banging away at all hours. We stayed a few days with the Parachute Regiment at Flax Street Mill before being billeted at HMS Maidstone berthed at the docks in Belfast. I wrote to my father about our naval accommodation.
"I served on that ship, during the Second World War, when she was a submarine depot ship," he wrote back. The coincidence was remarkable.
Riots, bomb scares, VCP's, person checks, swift powers of arrest, sounds of mortal gunfire echoing in the alleyways and the liberal wafting of cordite were soon to become familiar sounds and sights. It felt surreal to witness life in the town that was infected with such nervousness and fear. I patrolled through abandoned and derelict streets as people threw bottles and spat obscenities at me before running away through the warren of narrow alleyways.
Not all the inhabitants were naughty, far from it. There were incredible acts of affection witnessed everyday from the town's wonderful people. There was kindness I'll probably never witness again. Cups of tea, cakes, sandwiches, pecks on my baby cheeks, issued at 4am from kind ladies who risked their lives just by being in association with us. I even fell in love with a pretty local girl who followed my patrol incessantly at great self-risk for 4 weeks. I can still remember our quick kisses behind the Saracen.
Then operation 'Motorman' began in earnest and we moved here, there, and everywhere and back again searching cars, people, rushing to more bombs and riots, never knowing what was going to happen next. We were billeted wherever we could find shelter, once in a church, several abandoned dwellings and then at Dunmore Park. Operation Motorman was big worldwide news and we were perceived to be the men and the move that could end the conflict. Every newspaper, and TV news bulletin carried our faces and for a short while history was ours, as we possibly saved a sorrowful situation. I felt mildly heroic for 3 minutes or so.
It took a half a house brick to thud violently against the top of my helmet and as the brick dust blinded me a hostile crowd bayed loudly for my blood. At that point I realised that we hadn't yet quite achieved a hearts and minds victory over all and sundry. More bombs and more bullets, the blood coursing down ignominious back street gutters, washing cigarette butts and bubble gum wrappers away to drains that witnessed yet another end of an innocent life. This conflict was going to take some time to heal, I pondered.
Donny Osmond sang about puppy love as I grew up in a faster way than the books and schools could ever teach me, but there was more to come. The Olympic games held in Germany also heralded a new terrorist tactic with the killing of Israeli athletes in a world showpiece of orchestrated violence. The whole world seemed to be going mad.
No brass bands, no heroes welcome as we arrived back home - we had failed. Going back with a strange sensation that whatever we tried to achieve as a peacekeeping force had been entirely in vain. Almost ridiculously, I also missed being a key player back on those mean volatile streets.
After some brief leave, we sailed to Canada with HMS Albion on her last voyage before she was scrapped to make razor blades. The exercise was named Grey Goose and it was definitely the most miserable military exercise ever dreamed up. Our base camp consisted of minus 5 star accommodations with sodden and frozen tents for 4 weeks as we attempted to carry out nuclear, biological and chemical NATO manoeuvres. Our lack of correct clothing almost emulated the disastrous German Army's Stalingrad campaign.
We sailed back to Plymouth and straight into more intensive internal security training to prepare us for a full 4-month tour of Belfast. The tour party traveled on the 14th of February 1973, which perhaps wasn't the best Valentines Day present to any loved ones.
However, another personal episode had developed. Due to an unfortunate previous encounter with my new section commander, I began the tour as his most unpopular section member and last in command. During the second day of the tour, the mutual animosity that existed between us suddenly flared over a trivial thing and I nearly 'lost' it with him, it could have been very serious. Then the troubled conflict butted into our strained relationship when the bombs and the bullets and the riots took precedence. Within a short 6 weeks of that feud we had become firm friends through professional respect and astonishingly, he even made me his second in command. It was hard to believe that could ever happen. Later his expert tuition helped me become the one of the youngest section commander's in the province.
That time in Northern Ireland was my first real taste of real life education and learning to take responsibility. Simultaneously, I started reading a lot of educational books and with the newfound responsibility, people finally started to respect me. At long last, a bit of recognition had come my way and it had given me new goals, a new identity, and new horizons.
During that remarkable tour of Belfast, our section became involved with many terrifying incidents. We'd witnessed the entire range, bombs, bullets, and riots even more intense than in 1972. My new best friend, the section commander, was awarded the Military Medal in one frightening incident when our section became embroiled in a near death escape where we eventually captured two gunmen. The entire section had played its magnificent part in the success. It was our second big incident of the tour and during this period I went from a boy to a man in double quick time.
"Your attitude and responsibility has been noted, you've done very well, Lake," said the company commander, and I'll never forget his next words. "It has been a long, dangerous and tiring tour and your section has been involved in several serious incidents and may I add, dealt with them supremely well. Your section commander is physically and mentally drained, and he needs some urgent rest. We think you can stand in for him. I think you can take responsibility and lead the section. I want you to lead the section tonight whilst your section commander rests. He speaks highly of you; we have full confidence in your ability to lead men into dangerous situations. Good luck tonight."
That same night, the section sat in the armoured Saracen vehicle with me in command. We had been routinely touring our area for an hour when the Pye radio clipped onto my flak jacket suddenly crackled. The news from the radio made me want to vomit with the nerves, as there was a bomb scare and my section had to deal with it. We raced to the scene down the Antrim Road, a main arterial road in Belfast. A suspicious sack had been left outside the house of an important industrialist. I could see fear in the eyes of the rest of the section, and it was then that I realised that my decisions could affect their lives. At that time, the security forces took command priority over the other community services.
" Who's in charge, you sir? Okay sir? Where do you want us?" The senior policeman reported to me as soon as the Saracen had stopped but I was too nervous to appreciate the respect.
"Seal the road at both ends 100 meters away from the house. Evacuate every house and seal the street of any pedestrians," I replied.
"What about my men sir?" said the fire chief. I positioned the fire engine in a side street and my Marines in an area that wouldn't be used as a likely secondary bombsite. Sometimes fake bombs were planted in a site and real bombs planted where soldiers might observe from. I spoke into the radio and reported the situation. Within moments I was speaking to the commander of the British forces in the Belfast area who had taken control from his HQ.
"We have bombs and other incidents everywhere tonight, you're on your own," he said. "Before we send the bomb squad, A.T.O, can you verify the package is a bomb or at least suspicious enough to warrant professional help. Don't take risks but you've sealed off an important main road and with other potential bombs, most of Belfast is closed down. We need your guidance fast on this," said the General. " Part of Belfast tonight is in your hands."
I felt as if all eyes were on me, my first patrol in command and this had to happen. I was on my own. I had maybe 30 policemen assisting the situation, two fire engines and their crews, plus my own 9 men. There were scores of houses evacuated and the main road closed. At 19 years and one month old, I was saddled with a big, fat, hairy moment and there wasn't a lot of choice. I walked toward the suspicious package to try and verify its danger potential and no doubt all eyes were on me. I walked toward it and thought that it might be remote controlled and as I approached it someone would detonate it and send my body flying in a million different unidentifiable pieces. I walked with my arms protecting my privates just like a footballer does when defending against a free kick. It was absolutely terrifying but it was my duty, I walked slowly toward the package thinking that each step would be my last. With each step, I began shrugging off my past discrepancies. With each unsure footstep my philosophy on my wayward attitude to life changed. Each time I planted a Marine boot upon the road was a pace nearer the truth, my truth. I shed my skin, and relocated my brain with another more intelligent piece of software. As the package that might tear my body to pieces neared, I had become a completely different person. But would anybody else notice that I had discovered some of life's inner secrets before the bomb blew the living daylights out of me? Would anybody remember me in 6 months time if I died? Would my memory fade like all the rest of the war casualties? I walked with a feigned confidence towards the terrible package with its evil design.
There were still drawbacks, I suppose, because of my past behaviour. Not long after that incident when the tour had finally finished, I had an unforgettable evening out at a nightclub in Bracknell desperately trying some normality on leave. The tour had changed me dramatically, I was a thoroughly different responsible person and I had matured big time. I felt completely shattered, stress and tiredness ate into me, and a night out to help unwind the tension of those fearful Belfast situations was essential. The slow number came on and I made my move. "May I dance with you? Are you dancing? Dance?" I forget the terminology for asking girls to dance now but I cannot forget the answer.
"No way, you're Ken Lake aren't you? My friend told me all about you. You're not my type. Anyway short hair's out," came the reply, I crept away. Everyone had long hair in those days and every male looked like Marc Bolan of T Rex. I felt like a shaven-haired misfit. I sat at the bar nursing a pretty long drink and wishing I was drinking with a long pretty nurse. I cast my mind back to that first night in command and that first bomb in my command. It had turned out to be a fake bomb after all, but a cleverly disguised one. I'd called out Felix the overworked bomb disposal team and with the aid of a robot had detonated the 'bomb.' That first night in command had shown me that I could deal with responsibility and I had grown.
During the course of the night out in my hometown, I'd become a little embittered when I was being treated like a leper. I guessed then that I would never see my hometown as I once did; we had both changed and moved away from each other. Then all I needed was some decent R and R with a devastatingly pretty and intelligent, rich, fun-loving female company after months of living in a crowded billet with 30 men living in an airless, dark and dingy garage.
A little later during that miserable homecoming at the club, feeling totally dejected at the bar and getting just a little tipsy, the evening would eventually crash to an all time low. Someone tapped my shoulder incessantly and extremely rudely. Still with the fear of the Belfast horrors and especially the riots within me, I turned aggressively and faced a sour faced man with hard eyes in his mid 30s. "Back off, don't touch." I said automatically without thinking.
"Heh, take it easy chummy. I'm watching you. Any trouble tonight and I'll have you, understand? I'm the police; I'm Inspector Sausage Face. My job is to prevent punks like you from causing trouble." I don't remember his real name, but Sausage Face will suffice for now. Startled, I listened to more of the same. "Think you're a big man eh with the shaved hair and trying, but failing, to look tough? Did you hear the hard man? Back off, don't touch," he mimicked me to his watching acquaintances.
"Go away Sausage Face. I'm on some leave, so leave me alone and do us all a favour and leave the building." I replied. "Go and arrest a penguin for impersonating a chocolate bar or something," I snapped. I couldn't believe that this was happening to me. Two other of his colleagues crowded me standing threateningly close; looking at me as if I'd just nicked some fags from a ciggy machine.
"I think your night out is over Chummy. You're the one leaving the club right now. I'm arresting you on suspicion of being an escaped criminal. With a hair cut like that, you must be," Sausage Face exclaimed and the other two cackled exaggeratedly."
"Hasn't changed has he, still a useless trouble maker?" I heard one good-looking girl say. I felt humiliated and the incident made me want to explode. I whipped out my Marine I.D. card and shoved it near Sausage Face's eyes. "See this card? It means I serve my country, maybe die for my country. I suggest you dignify your profession elsewhere. Meanwhile go and stuff yourselves," I said or words to that effect and walked away without any attempt at an apology from the policeman. I left the club fast making my exit forlornly wondering why I'd risked my neck for my country. I should have grown my hair and had a great time dancing with all of the girls. Instead I became an outcast for nearly dying for my country.
Well, at least I was still alive, I thought. There was another young Marine also aged 19 who lay in a cemetery with the last post still echoing around the night along with the flapping wings of the bats. His life had been extinguished and for what exactly? His death just might have got a few lines in the national rag whilst an adulterous bed-romping politician hogged the headlines. The young Marine had been shot dead in a hardened Republican area in Belfast and would be quickly forgotten and for what? The story of his death was so sad. The Republican community leaders of the area we patrolled had asked for some sleeping policeman, (ramps) to be laid along a long spinal road between two warring communities to prevent gunman shooting from cars at the residents then making a fast escape. The Marines had acquiesced and built a couple of ramps at great risk because this road was very naughty. The first time a Marine Land Rover had slowed to negotiate it, two waiting gunmen pumped deadly machine gun bullets into it, killing Graham Cox and wounding two others. His death certainly hadn't proved anything. A month earlier, the young Marine who'd showed me how to iron my uniform during my initial days in training had lost both his legs in a concealed bomb blast in the same road. Days later, the residents complained because part of his foot still in his boot was lodged on a nearby roof. Another two Marines, through gunshot wounds, would never walk again without aid and I met another Marine friend who been shot in the arm and chest who looked like a skeleton a year after the incident. His life had collapsed as a direct result of the shooting. I also knew of Marines who turned to drink after serving stressful tours and many other lads suffered phobias like fear of open spaces and crowds. Everyone learnt extra things about themselves during those early tours in the 1970's.
Northern Ireland carried a lot of stigma because it was so unpopular and a no win situation. After spending 4 tours there, I now realise that the many needless deaths from civilians, policeman and soldiers were in vain. What a waste!
Years later, a poignant record was released called 19, by Paul Hardcastle. The song was about the average age of soldiers killed in Vietnam, which was 19. If American soldiers came back from Vietnam unscathed, they were often despised and incriminated with being associated with another unpopular conflict. No brass bands to welcome a returning soldier who'd risked his life. No welcome home party by a thankful town. After the infamous night out at the nightclub it seemed to magnify my feelings of being a soldier forgotten. I'd been proud to help out in a desperate situation in Belfast. I thought that I'd contributed and helped in a small humble way but it was only wishful thinking.
There were some benefits of this conflict and another part of my education had been achieved. I still think of Belfast, and not many days end without her fingers caressing my collar and sending a chill to concertina down my back. I would love the chance to sail across the Irish Sea once more, seek out those streets and walk them. I'd think of the fear and the needless death and maybe lay some personal ghosts to rest. I'd think how much my life had changed and how a new learning curve had developed for a young lad who'd escaped the factory floor and whose luck had prevailed in the back of a sodden garden with a pocket of cigarettes.
© 2004 Ken Lake
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