then when I was settling the bill and the barman asked me straight out: ‘Ready for your interview tomorrow?’ I was like a deer caught in headlights and he laughed: ‘It’s okay, son, they all stay here before they go over.’ I went back upstairs to my room, double-locking and chaining the door, convinced that the IRA could well be coming for me.
The following morning, outside the door of the hotel, a car pulled up beside me and a guy with a Northern accent yelled out the window: ‘Hartnett?’
Jesus, I thought, was this guy trying to get me killed? I was still a little skittish from the previous night’s episode and stood there in shock for a few seconds until he eventually shouted again, ‘Get into the fucking car, will ya, or we’ll be late!’
I jumped into the passenger seat and, much to my surprise and amusement, I barely had the seatbelt on when we drove up to the entrance of the camp. It was right across the road from the hotel.
In the waiting room there were about ten other candidates, and I stuck out like a sore thumb; not because of my background, though, but because – brought up by my mammy – I had gone to the trouble of dressing in a suit and tie. Everyone else was in jeans or a tracksuit. How was I ever going to fit in? I wondered.
At least I didn’t have to sit there for too long. Since I had the furthest to travel home, I was first in.
The interviewing officer was a captain in the Argyle and Southern Highlanders and a jovial enough guy.
‘So why the British army?’ was his first question. Upfront and personal, I think he was going for!
I replied with the reasons I had prepared: family connections to the British Armed Forces, my wish to travel, etc. He seemed happy enough. Then threw me a curveball.
‘How do you think you’ll manage as a Catholic in a Protestant army?’
I turned it back on him without batting an eyelid.
‘I didn’t realise the British army was a Protestant force. I thought it was non-denominational.’ He smiled at me.
‘Good answer! You’ll hear from us in due course with a date for your second interview and fitness test. In the meantime, keep training and stay out of trouble!’
It wasn’t until the following January that I got another letter to attend the same barracks in Omagh for my fitness test, aptitude tests and final interview in February. It was time to tell the family. Even though I worried and fretted about it, their reaction couldn’t have been better: they were only concerned for my safety, especially with what was happening in the North.
‘You won’t be posted to the North, though, will you?’ my mother asked.
‘Of course not,’ I assured her. How was I to know!
We agreed it was best to keep it to ourselves for the time being.
The fitness test involved a 1.5-mile run, two minutes of sit-ups and two minutes of press-ups. I had been training for months beforehand and was well able for it. I did the run in less than ten minutes, and managed a hundred press-ups and a hundred sit-ups. I didn’t have any problems either with the aptitude test or the final interview, and in fact I did so well they were suddenly offering me the choice of any military trade I wanted. With some help from the recruitment staff, I decided to train as a radio technician with the Royal Corps of Signals, which would give me a decent trade when I eventually left the army.
And that was it. I was to become a member of the British Armed Forces.
Six weeks later I got news of my starting date for training. I was to register on the first of September at Palace Barracks in Holywood, Co. Down.
My family was very worried now; just two weeks previously, the Real IRA had killed twenty-nine people and injured more than 200 with a bomb in Omagh. It was the single biggest loss of life in the Troubles. Whatever about my family worrying, I was more determined than ever now to sign on the dotted line.
I arrived at the train station in Belfast and a driver was there with my name on a card. He drove me to Palace Barracks. I was expecting some sort of ceremony as I took the Oath of Allegiance to the queen, but there was no such thing. I was taken into a room with an army officer and given a piece of paper to read from. Where were the bands and the parading soldiers? There was just a picture of the queen hanging on the wall and that was it. I read the words aloud as instructed. They sounded hollow to me and even though they were only words, something didn’t feel right about it. My heritage, my Republican upbringing and my years of observing the Troubles from that perspective were objecting to what I was doing. But it was too late.
I was driven to Belfast City Airport and put on a flight to start my basic training and take the Queen’s Shilling.
3 SWIFT AND SURE
It was a Friday afternoon when I arrived home and, after the initial family time, I took the short walk to the local pub in search of my first pint in four months. There was the usual collection of locals propping up the bar. I made my way to the back of the lounge and stood alone waiting to be served. I spotted the owner, Maureen, as she moved up the bar towards me. I had known her all my life and she never seemed to age a day in that whole time.
‘Guinness, Seán?’ she asked.
‘When you’re ready, please, Maureen.’ As she pulled the pint she looked me square in the eye and asked: ‘So how is the British army treating you?’ She smiled while my jaw dropped. ‘There are no secrets in this place, Seán, you should know that. You needn’t worry, though, no one here will have anything to say about it and if they do they’ll have me to answer to.’ Over the years I had seen this woman face down drunken men twice her size with no more than a stare and would rather face down a soldier than Maureen any day.
I realised, however, that I’d need to be on my own guard despite Maureen’s assurances.
*
Army Training Regiment, Bassingbourne, was where my life in the army began, with four months of phase-one, basic military training.
If I thought there was a lack of ceremony at Palace Barracks, then my arrival at Bassingbourne was positively anticlimactic. Picked up by a military driver at the train station in Royston, I was deposited at my troop accommodation block without so much as a glance from the hundreds of other troops scurrying around the vast camp. My section corporal took me into a room and promptly searched the two bags I had brought with me. I was allowed to keep one set of civilian clothing, sportswear, socks and underwear. The rest I was assured I wouldn’t be needing for the next four months. I was marched (though that’s probably too technical a word for it) into the troop office where I was introduced to my troop sergeant, Sergeant Carter. Carter was the stereotypical British army sergeant, a huge barrel-chested man, with a moustache, and a pace stick permanently tucked under his arm. I instantly liked the guy. He was to the point and tolerated no bullshit.
‘Right, Hartnett, I see you’re from the Republic. Nobody here gives a shit. Any problems with the other recruits: officially, I want to hear about it. Unofficially,` sort it out yourself!’
I was then led down the corridor to my section room. As we entered, one of my fellow recruits called the room to attention. I was impressed. The room consisted of ten bed spaces. Each had a single bed complete with army-issue blankets and sheets, a fitted wardrobe, chest of drawers and a footlocker. The beds faced one another in an otherwise open room. Only one space was empty, and this, I realised, would be my home for the next four months.
‘Right, Paddy, get your kit unpacked and be quick about it. Everyone outside in three ranks in two minutes!’ the section corporal roared as he left the room. No one had time to introduce themselves to me, such was the panic to get outside. Panic would be a regular state for us all during our first few weeks, as we struggled to get used to the relentless pace of army life. And Paddy would be my nickname for my first eighteen months of army life. It’s just how it was: if you were Irish you were Paddy, if you were Welsh you were Taff, and if you were Scottish you were Jock. There were many other