5th January 1980. Northern Ireland.
Armoury of a combined RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary) and Army base.
‘Travelling alone boss?’ The Quartermaster Sergeant seemed concerned that I had no escort.
‘Yeah, a meeting with the RUC. They want to chat about a new cell operating in the area and about the contact outside Castlederg last week. I should be back before eleven hundred hours.’
I understood his concern, it was standard procedure to travel in pairs. I also knew that two fit-looking men in a car would be far more likely to be identified as soldiers than a scruffy-looking individual on his own.
That day, as I booked out my personal weapon, I had no idea how attached to it I was going to become. Even in those days, I preferred the Beretta over the standard issue Browning and, luckily for me, I was allowed the choice. At the time though, it was just a tool of the job. Nothing to be fond of.
In January 1980, I was twenty-seven years old. I’d been in the army for eight years, having signed on for a three-year, short-service commission after flunking my ‘A’ levels. My grammar school headmaster had been so surprised when he’d heard the news that he had actually rung my parents to see if it were true. ‘Robert Finlay an army officer? Never!’ I could just imagine his words. But he had only known me as a kid who seemed to have more time for girls than his studies. I could remember his words clearly from when he lectured me the second time I was given the cane. ‘Study now, fornicate later, Finlay,’ he said. I should have listened but, hell, I was sixteen, no-one could teach me anything.
I enjoyed the army so much that instead of leaving after three years, I signed on for a regular commission. The last three of my eight years’ service had been spent as a troop commander in various parts of the world with the 22nd SAS Regiment.
I hadn’t always wanted to try SAS selection. It was only when I met some of their lads on a training exercise in Germany that the idea entered my head. Generally speaking, artillery officers don’t apply for Special Forces. My application surprised even my closest friends in the mess at Woolwich.
Although I made it through the selection process at the first attempt, I was a long way from being the best applicant the SAS ever had. And this was amply demonstrated by the hill-phase endurance test. It’s ironically called the Fan Dance. Forty-five miles on foot in twenty hours, carrying so much kit that most men needed help simply to stand up.
After crossing the finish line with just a few minutes to spare, I developed both a deep respect and hatred of the Brecon Beacons, the range of mountains where the test took place. It’s a beautiful place, incredible scenery and wonderful landscape, but I always seemed to see it through a fog of pain.
To this day, I don’t really remember the last five miles. I just kept moving forward, my brain in a form of numbed haze. I passed four casualties in the final stages, including another of the three officer candidates, a Captain from the Royal Irish Rangers.
Perhaps I was stupid, but I lost time as I stopped to speak to all of them to see if they needed help. One of the lads from the Engineers had collapsed face-down near a stream. Poor bastard was being weighed down by his bergen and would probably have drowned if I hadn’t come around the corner. I wasted several minutes dragging him into the shelter of a rocky outcrop before trudging on.
A few yards after crossing the line, my legs gave up the fight and I ended up on my back, bergen beneath me, flailing about like a stranded beetle. Strong hands helped me to my feet and a mug of tea was shoved into my hand. The corporal who handed it to me laughed at my reaction to the super-sweet liquid.
‘Get it down you, butt,’ he barked.
‘You’re Welsh?’ I said as I took a second gulp.
‘From the valleys.’
‘My mother’s from Swansea.’
‘Like I give a shit. Now get moving, on the lorry and double quick,’ came the reply.
I’d been put in my place. Officer or not.
Over the coming year I spent all my time on the shooting range, in the jungle, on escape and evasion exercises or acquiring the skills needed on the counter-terrorist team.
I made the cut, and in late 1978 was assigned to B squadron.