a tiny red rose from one of the wreaths and dropped it into the grave, then I turned, still sobbing, and walked back towards the black car where the driver was waiting.
By lunchtime, Mary, Mark and I were in the car heading home to Ireland. Back in Derry, we were supported through our trauma with the help of Mary’s mum and dad. The neighbours were just brilliant, as Derry people normally are at times of bereavement. We decided that Mary should stay with her family for a few weeks, as it was obvious she could never go back to the house in Winfrith. I had phoned Colonel Green, who understood our situation and was arranging for us to be allocated a married quarters in the camp itself, where we would be less isolated. I travelled alone back to England, signed for the new house and drove to the old house in Winfrith.
Everything was how we had left it. Sharon’s pram sat in the hallway and the airing cupboard was full of her baby-grows and pink dresses. Upstairs, her cot sat as it was left that awful morning, though the blanket she used to cling to whilst going to sleep lay on the floor, where it had fallen in the panic. Her frilly pillow lay on the cot mattress and I was overcome with emotion as I picked it up and held it to my face. I could smell Sharon’s aroma and I started to cry as I breathed in her baby smell. As I stood over her chest of drawers I was overcome with emotion at the sight of the small golden teddy bear, the very same present Mary had wanted to give her all those weeks ago. I had insisted she shouldn’t get it until Christmas Day and I slid down the wall sobbing my heart out. Had I listened to Mary we could have seen the joy on her little face; I felt so guilty.
In between tears I managed to pack everything and move our bits and pieces to the new married quarters. Before leaving Dorchester I drove to the cemetery and placed the teddy bear on Sharon’s grave, which still had the wreaths on it. I bent down and took the cards off the flowers, put them in my pocket and stood there talking to Sharon for a few minutes. I said a little prayer and promised her that I would come back soon. I didn’t know then that it would be twenty-three years before I would see her again. The next day I picked up the formal death certificate. I sat and looked at the line that read: ‘Cause of Death INFANCY SYNDROME’. I didn’t know what it meant, though nowadays most parents know that ‘Sudden Infancy Syndrome’ means cot death.
Thinking back, I realise that Mary and I were blessed with friends like Margaret Sawyer and Sergeant Bob Crabb. By late 1973, Mary, Mark and I were settled in our new quarters on Gaza Road. Mary had friends and neighbours from the regiment, and everyone advised us to have another baby as soon as we could. By August that year Mary received the good news that she was pregnant again. The baby was due in April 1974 and she was delighted. Of course, we were hoping for a little girl. Even though things were getting better with our new house, our new friends and a better quality of life, Mary was yearning for home and just wanted us to go back to Derry so that she could be with her family.
***
One night around New Year, Mary and I discussed the possibility of going back to live in Derry. The Troubles were at their height and Derry didn’t look like the sort of place an ex-British soldier would be welcome. Mark was nearly five and it was time for him to go to school, and we knew the army school wasn’t that good. Not because the Education Corps was incompetent, but families move around a lot in the services and sometimes the interruptions put the child back months. After weeks of discussion I promised that I would write to my sister Doreen and my father and ask their advice, since my family was closer to republicanism than Mary’s and they would know whether it was safe for me to return or not. My brother Robert had left the army after six years and settled down in Derry without any problem. Deep inside I knew they would tell me I was mad and that to come back would endanger my life, and I also knew that if Mary was aware of this she might change her outlook. By early January 1974 I had received a reply from Doreen, and it wasn’t what I expected. I would be safe enough and no one would touch me so long as I was genuinely coming home and had discharge papers. She went on to tell me that she had spoken to her friend ‘Paul’, who knew Mary very well. He had heard about Sharon’s death and couldn’t foresee any problem.
I was now under great pressure to leave the army, but I decided to share my thoughts and feelings with Colonel Green. ‘You would be mad to leave at this point in your career,’ was his response. ‘Besides, you’ll be in great danger if you return to Ireland.’ After further discussion I agreed that he could check out the real security situation in Derry through a friend of his in the Intelligence Corps, a decision that would change my life, and ultimately Mary’s, forever.
CHAPTER 2
BACK HOME IN DERRY
T.E. Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia, was one of the famous old boys of Bovington Camp. His Dorset retreat at Clouds Hill cottage was located just behind the barracks, and I had often visited the place because of my interest in the legendary British spy and Arabist – whom Peter O’Toole immortalised on film in David Lean’s epic biopic of his extraordinary life. Lawrence had rented the cottage in 1923 after returning from the Middle East, and he was killed nearby in a motorcycle accident twelve years later. It was here in this most apposite of spots, inside his beloved country hideaway, that I was recruited by MI5.
My commanding officer, Colonel Green, was aware of my wish to leave the army and return to war-torn Derry. He had passed on this request to a friend of his who called himself Captain Thorpe. It was Captain Thorpe who suggested we meet for coffee at Lawrence’s cottage, ostensibly to discuss what to do with the rest of my life once I left the regiment.
Two days after his call I sat in my car watching the junction where we’d agreed to meet. Right on cue a green military Morris Countryman arrived driven by a tall man in army uniform. He motioned me to join him and Captain Thorpe drove to a remote area at the back of Clouds Hill, where we waited on the open road. A black Mercedes pulled in behind us and the captain asked me to get out and meet the driver. A man in civilian clothes emerged from the Mercedes and introduced himself as ‘Alan’, removing his black leather gloves. He was very well-dressed and spoke with a very soft English accent. He led me away from Captain Thorpe, as if he wanted our conversation to be private and out of earshot.
‘I’m not in the army so you don’t have to call me Sir,’ he said. We walked and talked and he told me that his organisation had a special project on the back burner that they were now seeking to activate. He informed me that they had trawled the Officer Training College at Sandhurst looking for ‘the right person with the right credentials’ without success. My file had ended up in his office for an entirely different reason and had been brought to his attention. He told me his boss was surprised to find someone with my record and background serving in the British Army. They had checked my file at the Ministry of Defence, my confidential reports, qualifications, my personal skills, and agreed that I might be a right ‘fit’. For what? I wondered.
He then said something that left me perplexed. Alan referred to the letter from Derry which stated that a certain ‘Paul’ had made it clear to my family that even as a former British soldier I would still be safe to return home to Derry. ‘The person referred to in this letter as “Paul” is Paul Fleming, from a well-known republican family in the Waterside, Londonderry.’ Alan was remarkably well informed about who was who and the rising stars of the republican movement in Derry. Nonetheless, he went on to describe how bad the intelligence was in the area, particularly political intelligence. ‘Despite what you might read in the papers or hear in the mess, the republican movement in Londonderry is not Communist or Marxist. There is no “Danny the Red”. In your city, ever since the Para’s fucked up on Bloody Sunday, they’ve had more recruits join their ranks than the entire Infantry Corps of the British Army.’ Alan stressed that the organisation was still open for infiltration, adding these chilling words, ‘Which is where you come in.’
I protested, ‘There must be some mistake. I’m only a clerk from Bovington Camp.’
‘No you’re not,’ he said, ‘you’re a nationalist from Creggan Estate. Your family has already been affected by the Troubles and I’m not just referring to your sister. Your brother’s niece, Annette McGavigan, was shot dead by British troops in very dubious circumstances. So, listen to me Willie, we’re not looking for an SAS type. Besides, there will be an operation run by the army which targets the IRA. But understand