With apologies to Ambrose Bierce author of the famous American Civil War story. There was no redemption in that story, nor is there any in this.

Only read on when you have read the Cautions.

This story reflects the attitudes of the time in which it’s set.

The groups involved are not important. The story is about attitudes, not politics.

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I looked at the map: The border made no sense. It snaked through fields, farmyards and supposedly even houses, demarcating a political separation with no regard for any physical characteristics on the landscape. It had come into being when the colonial power withdrew from most of their one-time colony but retained a portion inhabited by the descendants of settlers who had arrived three hundred years earlier and whose loyalties lay with their original ancestral homeland. Unfortunately for them, their mini Statelet contained within its borders a substantial number of now disaffected inhabitants whose loyalty lay with the newly independent National state across their border. Low level guerrilla actions had gone on sporadically for decades and now, sixty years on, had degenerated into a terrorist campaign waged by a small faction of the minority population in the Statelet supported by an even smaller faction in the former colony. The Statelet Police were unable to handle the problem and the Occupation Army had to return.

On our side of the border the National Police were similarly unable to contain the spillover violence, which included armed robbery carried out by the terrorists to finance their campaign and border incursions into the Statelet to attack anyone they considered an enemy: Their list was long. The National Army was supporting the National Police to keep a lid on the violence.

I was normally based well away from the border, but non-border battalions would regularly rotate platoons, approximately 34 personnel in total, to support the hard pressed border units. Normally we supported the same unit so that we were able to become familiar with the terrain.

So, here I was, in the early 1980’s, looking at the map with the border battalion’s Operations and Intelligence Officers, and a National Police Inspector. The police on both sides of the border had detected some unusual activity: Each Friday and Saturday night single cars were observed parked, somewhat hidden, along an old “unapproved” road, one on each side of the border. The cars belonged to individuals not known to be terrorist supporters or activists, but who could be sure? The road had once been passable to traffic, but a bridge on the border, for once following a stream for a few hundred yards, had been blown up by the Occupation Army to prevent cars passing. A local farmer whose land straddled the border had erected a form of pedestrian bridge which the Occupation Army eventually got tired of dismantling so it continued to exist as a foot crossing while nature set about reclaiming the road. The makeshift pedestrian crossing had become known as Owen Craig’s Bridge. The farmer’s grandparents had abandoned their old house on the National side of the bridge and moved across the border when it cut them off from their compatriots in the then new Statelet.

The National Police requested that we carry out surveillance of the area on the next practicable Friday/Saturday night to see if something untoward was afoot. With no training in fieldcraft, this job was completely beyond their capabilities. It actually wasn’t easy. It was now June, the shortest nights of the year. That meant that we had to be in place from Thursday and could not extricate until Sunday night if we were to have any chance of remaining covert. We also had to go in on foot for the same reason and a quick map recce established that the road on the National side couldn’t be fully covered from one position; we would need two OPs. We couldn’t communicate between these by radio as both the terrorists and the Occupation Army across the border could monitor our ANPRC77 Sets, in fact the latter could triangulate on them. This being the case, we would need to connect the sites using field telephone, laying almost half a mile of wire.

Eventually I had a plan. We would be dropped off after last light at least two miles away from the planned OP (Observation Post) locations and would head off in the opposite direction, circling around to the main OP area, establishing our position there and then occupying the second OP, laying wire as we went. The half moon would give some light; we would have preferred no moon as darkness was our friend. All movement was to be along hedgerows. An old wooded Rath close to the main OP would serve as a good Lying Up Point (LUP) where we could sleep, and even heat up food on our hexamine stoves. We were eight in total, myself, a Sergeant 2i/c, two Corporals and four Riflemen of whom two were qualified as Radar Operators. At that time of year we had a max of four hours of darkness so despite the need for stealth and our heavy packs, we would have to move fast. Each of us had an FN rifle with ammo, 3 days rations, hexamine cookers, water, sleeping bags, kip mats and bivvy bags. On top of that, we had two passive night vision scopes and one manpack radar, two ANPRC77s with spare batteries, field telephones and wire. We each carried spare woollen socks; though the weather promised fine, wet feet are debilitating over that time period, both to physical well-being and morale!

We got it done, just about, except for the wire which we would have to lay the next night. Although not expecting “business” until Friday evening at the earliest, we had to occupy the OPs immediately as it could not easily be done covertly during the long hours of daylight. We were initially on easy routine; three out of four off duty in the LUP and one out of two in each OP required alert. The guys in the LUP could heat their food; in the OPs we had to eat cold rations. It wasn’t a great hardship, the temperature moved between ten and seventeen degrees Celsius as the sun moved across the sky. I took first shift in the main OP with the Sergeant running the LUP. Other than stay hidden and rested, his only instructions were that the wire should be laid between the OPs and the LUP starting at 11PM on Friday and the OPs were to be relieved sequentially at 12:30AM Saturday morning.

The OPs were to go to standard routine at 5PM Friday; the National Police had confirmed that the cars were never present before the end of the working day. Both OPs had a passive night vision scope and the main OP, which overlooked the old house, the bridge and well into the Statelet, had the manpack radar. Both the radar and the scopes had to be checked during the day, the latter with the daylight cover on or the scope would be ruined, and turned off again to await darkness. Then wait, observe, yawn, observe… OP work is very boring.

Then I spotted him, walking down the road; as our line isn’t laid yet, the first OP hasn’t been able to notify me. Nothing remarkable, a slight build, around 5’10” to 6’, longish reddish hair (this was the 80s), short shorts (again, the 80s), and a T-shirt. The only interesting thing was that he was carrying a bag, a long, green, cylinder-shaped bag with the carrying handles on his left shoulder. The bag was clearly full and seemed heavy. He walked at a moderate pace, neither fast or slow, keeping to the side of the road where the hedges made it difficult to track his progress. Occasionally he looked around but not so that it would be obvious that he was looking out for observers or followers. He made his way along the road almost to the old bridge, stood there for a few seconds gazing along the road leading into the Statelet, then turned and went to the old house. He seemed to half lift the front door to open it and disappeared inside.

About half an hour later a figure appeared in the distance on the other side of the bridge. Again a young man, in jeans and a shirt, short hair, also burdened with a large pack. This was now getting suspicious but it looked more like smugglers than terrorists and these were not really on either our nor the National Police’s radar, manpack or otherwise. He approached the front door of the house, knocked, appeared to speak to the occupant through the door then carried his pack down to a flat piece of ground beside the stream over which the bridge crossed.

I watched through binoculars: The sun was behind me now so I needn't worry about them catching the light. I could clearly see him take a large picnic rug out of the pack and spread it on the ground. I could even see that one side was waterproofed. Next he took out two tripod stools, some tumblers and a bottle of white wine which he placed in the stream. Last, a roll of kitchen paper and two plastic boxes the contents of which I couldn’t through my 7x50 binoculars. The door of the house opened and he turned towards it.

A girl emerged, tall, red haired, shapely, wearing a calf length blue dress which flowed as she walked towards picnic-man. He walked towards her and soon they were wrapped in a long embrace. He let her go, moved his head back, and drew her into a passionate kiss. Then he held her hand as they walked to the picnic blanket, helped her down onto one of the low stools and retrieved the bottle from the river. He opened it, handed her a glass which he proceeded to fill for her before pouring one for himself, putting the cork back into the bottle and returning it to the water. He sat beside her on the other stool and they started to fish morsels out of the plastic boxes, nibbling these and sipping their wine.

Now I felt bad; we were intruding on this couple’s privacy and we could not withdraw as it was still light. In any event, we were committed to a two night observation of this area despite the proximate cause of this observation task turning out to be harmless. I glanced over at the Radar Operator manning the OP with me. He looked over at me, made a ring with his left hand by joining the tips of his forefinger and thumb, then proceeded to poke his right index finger in and out of this ring a few times before pointing to his rear end. I was aware that the soldiers habitually referred to male gays as queers and arse bandits and that homosexuality was still technically illegal in both our army and our state. I turned away, not wanting to encourage this behaviour but also feeling that it would be dangerous for me to challenge it. If any hint of suspicion was raised and I was followed by either the Military or National Police on my days off, my career and reputation were both finished!

I looked back towards the couple. They had now slid off the stools and were lying together on the blanket, still attending to their wine and nibbles, but obviously progressing with their intimacy as the mood and wine lead them on. I got the Radar Operator busy in setting up his radar set on a small tripod similar to that on which the passive night scope was mounted before we synchronised the azimuth rings on each using prismatic compasses. It didn’t take long to get this job completed and, with the light now fading, the Radar Operator settled down to scanning the area slowly with his radar. I knew that he, like most operators, would do this with his eyes closed. They could concentrate better on the sounds in their headphones that way. It was said that a skilled operator could distinguish between a person and an animal, and give a reasonable estimate of the number of persons in a group, but I never personally got to that level of skill and was slightly sceptical about these claims.

The wire party arrived, sensibly the Sergeant had given the wire task to the ongoing team on OP2 and our field telephones were connected and checked. Then our team was relieved by the Sergeant and another Radar Operator. We whispered a handover and headed back to the LUP. Of course we couldn’t light up our hexamine cookers in the dark as the glow might be noticeable so we turned in, intending to cook some breakfast the following morning. After about four hours it was light again so I got up and started to boil some water and fry up slices of bacon fry, a dreadful concoction of salt, grease and bits of pig… maybe ears, trotters, tail and suchlike. In the absence of incoming artillery, it was the most lethal hazard we faced on these Internal Defence operations. When it was ready I woke the Corporal and Rifleman who were still asleep; the second Rifleman was on watch. They seemed a little embarrassed that their officer had cooked them breakfast; even in our egalitarian society with no real social class distinction between officers and non-commissioned personnel, this was unusual. We tucked into bacon fry with biscuit and tea. There was no cleanup as there wasn’t enough water and there was no source other than the stream: We just let the mess tins get cold, wipe them with some kitchen towel and wrap them away in plastic bags. Before turning in again, I gave a quarter turn on the handle of the field telephone, just enough to make a click on the other two phones in the OPs. As we were on a party line system, they both answered in turn and waited for whoever initiated the call to speak.

“OP1 here.”

“OP2 here.”

“LUP here, Sunray, anything happening?”

In any group, Sunray denotes the person in charge, Sunray Minor is the 2I/C. By convention, OP1 would respond first.

“OP1 here, Sunray Minor, lots here. Romeo and Jules split around 1AM, both heading back same way as arrived. Large force of Occupying Army swept Hill Golf from West to East at first light. Proceeded East across Hill Hotel before losing sight. Estimate platoon strength plus. That’s it.”

“ OP2 here, one person passed on unapproved road heading South East towards main road at 01:16hrs. Nothing further to report.”

“Sunray here. I’ll consider and revert.”

I decided to ignore the reference to Romeo and Jules; same reasoning as before. The Sergeant’s report could have been much more crude.. We were in Drumlin country, a series of low gravelly hills that had been deposited during the last ice age and were a feature of this landscape. Most did not have a specific height, the usual way to name hills, so we had given them names in the planning stage simply by giving each hill a letter of the alphabet and ensuring that all our maps were similarly annotated with copies left to Ops and Int back at Battalion.

So why would the Occupying Army sweep these hills now? They shouldn’t be aware of our presence, and I doubted that they were. They had access to the same Int as us as the two police forces did share quite a lot of information but a big sweep would do nothing to clarify whatever might be happening at the Bridge. Either it was a complete coincidence or… or… much more likely, they had dropped off their own OP as they swept through. This was a standard enough tactic for them, both in the urban and rural environment. It would be very difficult for an observer to notice that maybe forty men set out, but only thirty two returned, particularly if the dropoff and pickup positions were in different locations. They might have left even more than an OP, possibly an ambush party?

The two armies operated to very different rules in relation to the terrorists. On our side, we did not ambush or shoot to kill except under very strict rules, mainly involving self defence. We would observe, and where possible vector our own police in to make an arrest. We could also detain a suspect until our police arrived. The terrorists reciprocated by rarely actually attacking us thought they did on occasion fire on us when determined not to be captured. Their leadership knew that if they pushed our government, state and, crucially, public opinion too far the National security services would reciprocate and this would be to the terrorists long term detriment.

The Occupying Army on the other side of the border operated to very different rules with both sides happy to ambush and kill the other as the occasion presented. Any OP that they had left behind would be large enough to defend itself against any conceivable threat, with backup waiting around the corner. But the bigger the force, the harder it would be to hide them successfully. If they were there, we would probably get them on radar once it got dark.

Now I had another problem. With how the situation was developing I needed to be in OP1 from about 3PM. Back in the LUP I had no sight of either the unapproved road, cottage or bridge but I had line of sight on the two hills, Golf and Hotel, which meant that they had the same on our LUP. They couldn’t see us in the Rath which was composed of a raised earth bank surrounding a depression in the centre, and was heavily wooded. But they would see me if I tried to relieve the Sergeant using the route we had used at night. I would have to exit the Rath on the opposite side to their position, cross about 20metres of open ground in daylight and make my way in a long circuit around the hedgerows to get to OP1. The Sergeant would have to do the same in reverse. Decision made, I briefed the OPs on the field telephone and went back into my sleeping bag for a few more hours rest. I left word with the Corporal in the LUP that I was to be woken at 1:30PM by someone waving a mess tin of warm stew under my nose. The hexamine cookers were virtually smokeless so we could continue to enjoy some hot food.

They took my order literally and my nose was assaulted by the smell of warm mono sodium glutamate at the prescribed hour. I ate it and took some biscuit and tinned meat for later and slithered off over the top of the Rath, slowly, relying on camouflage to conceal my presence as I slowly crawled to the hedgerows. Once there I could afford to walk in their shadow for most of the journey as I was in dead ground in relation to Hills Golf and Hotel, then on all fours for the last section until I reached OP1. It took me the best part of an hour and the Sergeant wasn’t disappointed to be on his way back to the relative comfort of the LUP.

I settled into waiting again and my decision to get to the OP early was not rewarded by an early appearance by our two friends. It was about 6:30pm when the man arrived from the National side and went into the house. She was changed and back out, this time in a denim miniskirt and top, before her beau arrived from the Statelet side. They greeted each other as before and spent some time strolling up and down the accessible part of the stream bank, about a hundred metres or so. They eventually settled down on the rug, this time with a flask of something and some sandwiches; yesterday’s repast must have been celebratory. They lay together for a while before, presumably to warm up, they resumed their riparian stroll, sometimes holding hands, sometimes with their arms around each other, oblivious, happy, unaware…

Dusk was setting in and the Radar Operator was setting up the radar. I would shortly have to switch to the passive night scope. Our friends had just about reached the bridge and were turning around. I looked down to get the nightscope out of its bag when, suddenly, the unmistakable sound of a short burst from a GPMG, the machine gun used by both armies. My first reaction was to scan the hills opposite for any muzzle flash but I was far too late for that. I moved my binoculars to look for our strolling friends. Good, I could just make them out, they had hit the ground, the most sensible option when someone is firing a machine gun! I had to get the night scope out now. As I was firing it up the Radar Operator reported movement on a bearing. I didn’t have my scope aligned but I quickly got my prismatic compass, found the bearing, aimed the scope and yes, there was a patrol moving out; their regular spacing screamed “army” at anyone who saw them. I watched until they had disappeared then swung my scope around to look for our friends. Strange; they hadn’t moved. I focussed on them; they weren’t moving at all. A soldier might be able to do that, a civilian never would. I started to feel sick; it couldn’t be that…

I kept looking, still no movement. I had to make a decision. I picked up the handset of the ANPRC77. The set was already turned on for a low listening watch. I keyed the handset:

“Hullo three niner , three niner, this is three niner foxtrot, message, over.”

“Three niner, send, over.”

“Three niner foxtrot, shooting at Owen Craig’s Bridge. Believe two civilians hit. Police and ambulance needed max urgency. Shooters probably Occupation Army and believe withdrawn.”

“Three niner, Roger. Wait out.”

I cranked the handle on the field telephone.

“LUP Here”.

“OP2 Here”.

“OP1, Sunray here, OP2, hold your position and cover for the time being. Expect police and ambulance coming in, hopefully soon. Sunray Minor, break cover and move to my location with one. Leave two in LUP.”

There was no point in trying to maintain complete cover now as our location would have been picked up by all sides from my clear radio broadcast. This was a benefit. If everybody knew who we were, we were less likely to become targets. Just to be sure, as the Sergeant and a Rifleman reached OP1 and were in cover, I fired a parachute flare over the bridge. We were the only ones likely to do that in the area. I looked at the two lovers, still lying in the same place. Now I knew; the only question was how bad. I collected two extra field dressings from the Sergeant and the Radar Operator and headed down the hill towards the bridge with the other Rifleman. We didn’t try to move tactically; we wanted to be seen in the open if anyone was still watching, but I doubted that anyone was. We reached the casualties; they lay together, no signs of life.

First to arrive were some Landrovers from Battalion; the Sergeant had called these in on the basis that there was no point in our either staying put or attempting a covert extrication. The ambulance and the National Police arrived virtually together. The ambulance was a bit marked from having to force its way through the woodland which had been encroaching on the road since it was closed. They quickly confirmed that the casualties were past their help. I went into the old house with a policeman and we collected the bag of clothes. The ambulance departed and more police arrived including a scenes of crime team and an investigating Inspector to what was now a possible murder site. The Statelet Police, with an Occupation Army escort arrived on the other side of the stream. Through the National Police inspector I requested that the likely firing points be secured overnight and treated as a crime scene. They weren’t happy about this but couldn’t easily refuse the request. Now that they were in an exposed fixed position overnight, it would take at least a platoon of the Occupation army to ensure their safety.

The bodies and the picnic rug were now covered by a large light plastic sheet. The National Police had secured the crime scene. Battalion wanted us back to talk to the Int Officer and a Legal Officer coming in from Brigade HQ and had sent a small team to provide security for our police. The risk was now negligible. We packed up and returned to base.

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“National Police are investigating the deaths of two men in the Owen Craig’s area on the border. A statement from the Occupation Army claims that they opened fire on a group of terrorists attempting to infiltrate the Statelet after they themselves came under fire. Sources close to the National Security services suggest that the two men were on the National side of the border when shot and were unarmed. The National Minister of Justice has demanded full cooperation from the Occupation Army and Statelet Police with the investigation.

Now for other news…”

The Sunday morning news report set the tone for what was to become another spat between the National Government and the Statelet. This was neither the first, not would be the last, dubious shooting by Statelet security forces in what had become an intractable terrorist campaign. I was shortly due to rotate back to my home Battalion and decided to take a chance. Though we were strictly forbidden to engage directly with the Occupation Army I took my car and drove into the Statelet. To do this I had to pass through a fortified border crossing which I knew was manned by the same Occupation Army Company as had likely carried out the sweep. In the crossing, I handed a sealed envelope to the soldier who came to the window of my car and asked that he pass it to his Company Commander. I would pass through again in two days time for an answer.

Next time I passed through, two days later, the Occupation Army soldier on duty called out his Sergeant.

“Good evening, Sir. We need to do a full search of your car. Can you step this way?”

This was how I had suggested that the Occupation Army Company Commander meet me. There was almost a full garage in the checkpoint staffed by army fitters. I handed him the keys.

“Can you do the oil and filter while you’re at it?”

“Certainly Sir.”

He grinned and handed the keys to an overall-covered mechanic who had come up to the car. I followed him through a waiting room into an interrogation room just beyond. A Major, wearing camoflaged combats stood up and offered me his hand.

“Good evening Lieutenant, Major Hardy, Jim Hardy.”

“Good evening, Sir, Lieutenant Gray, Jim Gray.”

“Ah, two Jims. Coffee?”

He had a thermos and two mugs.

“Thank you , Sir.”

He poured the coffee and we both sat down.

“We should do this more often, but I understand your Army doesn’t like it?”

“That’s correct, Sir, Government policy. Well beyond my rank. I’ll be in deep shit if word gets out.”

“So it must be something important for you to take the chance?”

“Yes, Sir. I just wanted to tell you what I saw, off the record of course, on Saturday night.”

“I thought so, and I recognise your voice from that radio message we picked up. But what do you have to tell me that my own men haven’t?”

“ Well Sir, I don’t know what your men have said and I don’t want to know. I just wanted to let you know what happened, one Officer to another, and it’s up to you to do whatever you think is correct.

He nodded and I recounted the story. There were four salient points: it was a courting couple; there were no others; there were no weapons or firing before the single machine gun burst from his side; the victims were on our side of the border.

“So, you’re telling me that my men just shot two people on your side of the border for no reason. Surely you know that I can’t accept that?”

“Like I said, Sir. I can only tell you what I saw and will never divulge that I met you. It’s up to you what you do with it. There’s two possible explanations that I can think of. The most benign is that the gunner was sighting on the couple and not meaning to fire, maybe he even clicked off the safety on instinct. The second is that the gunner decided to kill these people because of what he perceived them to be. Like I said, it’s up to you what you do with this.

I would also like to say thanks for giving me a hearing.”

The last sentence was just to soften the words I’d said. I stood up to leave.

“Thanks for calling in Lieutenant. Look, obviously you feel deeply about this or you wouldn’t have taken the risk of contacting me. But, whatever really happened, they were just two queers and one a Tranny.”

My stomach felt like I could either get sick, defecate or both, right on the spot. I pulled myself together.

“I look on then as people, Sir, one a citizen of my country, the other presumably of yours.”

I put out my hand before he had time to answer. Proprieties must be observed.

“I’d like to wish you and your men a safe deployment.”

“Thank you Lieutenant.”

I went out past the waiting room with one harassed-looking incumbent waiting for the mechanics to finish with his car. Mine was ready; they’d only given it a cursory check. I had, of course, removed my stash from under the back seat and left it in a locked case in my room in the Mess. The Sergeant handed me my keys and saluted. Not being in uniform I could not return his salute but faced him and bowed slightly in acknowledgment. I drove away, the feeling of nausea returning as the Major’s words repeated constantly in my head.

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I would be driving my own car with the military vehicles talking the platoon back to our home unit. Others who had brought their own cars gave their rifles and ammunition to friends travelling in the convoy and drove back independently but, as the only officer, I had to stay with the armed party. Not that we were expecting any trouble; it was just how we did things. The evening before departure I decided to buy some coke and biscuits for the journey, the sugar and caffeine would help keep me awake when driving, and went to the local supermarket in civvies to stock up. I was just picking up a packet of Mars bars when someone spoke right beside me.

“We think you’re keeping bad company, Jamie Boy.”

I looked around at a man, average height, average build, in fact totally average except for cold hard eyes in an expressionless face.

“You have the advantage of me, Sir.”

If he was going to call me by the name of a pirate in an old movie, I might as well address him in a phrase I’d picked up from some other, equally old, movie. I’d never seen this man before but it was obvious that this was a terrorist, probably stood down from “active service” and now working as a “social activist” or in a political role.

“Well, don’t we get posh hobnobbing with the Occupation Forces!”

“You’re a good few steps ahead of me, care to rewind?”

I knew, of course, what he was referring to.

“You see, they never check your cars, given that your both on the same side against the Cause. So I got myself to thinking, why would they give yours the twice over? Ah, sure they wanted to have a chat with you, or you wanted to have a chat with them?”

“You’ve been reading too many conspiracy stories. I had no ID so they didn’t know me.

“Ach, sure, whatever. So why might you want to have a chat? Your down-country voice is very distinctive on the radio.”

OK, so he’d confirmed that they had monitored our radio traffic. He went on:

“So I got myself to thinking again, I do that, you know, and I thought than an innocent young down country lad like you might have wanted to put the record straight, seeing as you’d seen it and all, the shooting at the old bridge, Owen Craig’s bridge”.

“ Now why would I do that? You know we’re not allowed to talk to them.”

This was official and public policy; I wasn’t divulging any great secret there.

“And that’s when I figure that it must have hit you bad, to risk a court-martial or whatever you fellows do to each other.”

He knew I had seen the shootings and it would become public in any event if there was an inquest so I thought there’s no harm in confirming that I was there.

“Yes, I saw it. I know they weren’t your lot.”

The statements issued by the Occupation Army had claimed that the victims were armed terrorists.

“Sure we know that. Our lot, as you call them, don’t go running around in dresses in the night.”

He wasn’t denying that the terrorists were “his” lot; there was no need to. Being a “sympathiser” wasn’t a crime. I did wonder if he knew something about me. I just nodded. He went on:

“Look, we’ll milk any propaganda we can out of this, but in the end, it was no great loss. Two queers, one of them a Tranny.”

The same sickening feeling again, but don’t let this guy see that you’re rattled.

“So why are you fighting the Occupation Army?”

He looked slightly puzzled, the only facial reaction I’d observed to far.

“Didn’t they teach you history in school?”

“I know my history; it’s just that you all seem to hate the same things.”

I took my packet of Mars bars and walked away.