Free Contact by A. F. N. Clarke Page B

of court cases for grievous bodily harm charges, and have to go through the routine of not guilty, my lord, and hope that we get the right judge.
    The rest of the area is quiet as we move slowly back to Leopold Street, the odd person stopped and searched, the odd youth given a going over. At night, we come into our own, having brought patrolling to a fine art. We feel safe, unchallengeable, masters of the shadows. Quiet, creeping around the maze of dwellings and somewhere out there a pair of eyes behind a gunsight waiting for the right opportunity to fire one round. See one soldier die and then escape. But not tonight, Paddy. Not tomorrow, Paddy. Because we've trained carefully Paddy. . .
     
    . . . It's turning into a typical Brecon night exercise. The wind has got up and the rain has given way to snow. Driving snow, that blasts into your face, numbing nose and ears, stinging cheekbones. The last volley dies away and there is just the sound of the wind howling over the exposed night firing range.
    "Wa tch and shoot. Watch and shoot. " I feel for the trip-wire cables and hope I've got the right one. There's a loud bang off to my right as the section commander fires a Very pistol. The cartridge hisses up into the night sky, illuminating the range for a brief moment. Three targets appear over on the extreme right flank and the gun crew engage. In a matter of seconds the light fizzles out and the darkness descends once again. Behind me, the O.C. gives me a nudge and I pull one of the cables. There is a popping noise in front and then a brilliant white light from the trip flare. All the targets are illuminated, glowing eerily in the snow-filled dark of the Welsh night. The noise from the entire section firing is ear-splitting and continues until the light finally dies. Total darkness descends once more.
    "Section commanders check weapons all cleared." There is a pause whilst we listen to the sound of rifles being cocked and checked. The occasional curse from one of the N. C . O.s at some idiot who got the drill wrong. Once cleared they file off the range and back to the comparative comfort of the hut.
    On exercises like these I always feel a spare part. The Recruit Wing staff take over completely and run the range, usually with a superior attitude that belies their ineptitude. At times like these I would cheerfully stick one on these guys and take the consequences. They just make me want to throw up. Thinking all this whilst the O.C . belittles the N.C.O.s and the platoon. He's standing there in the dark in the snow rabbiting on like an author of modern military tactics and leadership.
    "Have you quite finished? " I ask. I'm angry. Really angry. And I don't need a lecture on how to handle my platoon from this juvenile.
    "I have to make a report for the depot," he says, smugly.
    "Piss on your report," says I and walk off. I really can't take any more crap. As far as I'm concerned, the lads worked very well under the most difficult circumstances. John, my platoon sgt. falls into step beside me.
    "Don't worry about it, boss. I've heard it all before. Most of the time it's just a load of bullshit. There's hot tea inside.
    "Thanks. " There's not much else I can say.
    Inside the hut, the recruits are very subdued and it's not all exhaustion.
    "Well done lads. I thought you managed pretty well under the circumstances. However this is what it's all about. The enemy won't pick nice sunny days to attack on. They'll come in the pitch black and in the worst weather, so you'd better get used to it here and now. " No chorus of groans. just a shuffling silence as they move around trying to keep warm. "When you pass out of the Depot most of you will be going straight to Northern Ireland. The weather makes no difference a s to whether you patrol or not. " Again silence. "If you don't learn here, you'll die." No reaction. Ah well, perhaps I'll do better in the morning . . .
     
    Next morning and I'm sitting in the cookhouse, shovelling greasy bacon