A Pawn for the Queen - By Ken Lake (ISBN 9993261114)
Ken Lake served seven years in the Royal Marine Commandos, including serving four tours in the Northern Ireland conflict. Sniper trained, he was accredited with being the youngest section commander in Northern Ireland during the early 70s when Belfast went through its darkest hours. Ken says that his experiences in Belfast changed his outlook on life.

Recently on a peace pilgrimage back to Belfast after 31 years, he was welcomed by ex IRA and UVF activists in a unique bridge building exercise between protagonists of the conflict that cost so many lives. It was the first known dialogue between Ex British Forces and the IRA. The dialogue took place in Andersonstown, the Falls road and the New lodge districts showing that peace can be at long last a reality.

Some of his accounts can be read on Britain's small wars website

www.britains-smallwarscom/ni/ken4.html

 A military and freefall parachutist and sniper trained and with a career that included a being a full time amateur boxer for the Royal Navy boxing team as well as a Ski instructor. Ken is a fitness consultant and sports director of the Marsa sports club. He was chief coach for the TV games 'Its a knock out for the Maltese teams.

He has worked as a fitness coach for soccer, rugby, tennis, swimming, Water polo, boxing teams and rowing squads

 He has also worked as a bodyguard and spent some years on the oilrigs. He lives in Malta with his family, where he operates a fitness studio.

A Pawn for the Queen is his first novel and was nominated for the international IMPAC Dublin Literary award 2003

Lm 3.95 locally

£7.95 Including world wide delivery
E-mail lakes@global.net.mt for ordering.

About the Book

Charlie White is a unique young man from a deprived family and home. Breaking away from the East End of London, Charlie enlists in the Royal Marines and becomes an instant hero in the Falklands War, winning the George Medal in a bloody action. Charlie, it seems, is destined for a brilliant career until, upon the bitter streets and the troubles of Northern Ireland, fate conspires to persecute him. He is wrongly accused in a highly charged incident that threatens to derail the delicate peace talks between Ireland and Britain with the U.S.A. brokering. Without any substantial proof of his innocence, Charlie is sacrificed as a necessity so the peace talks can continue.

After years in prison he is released, an angry soured young man. The IRA plots his death with the aid of a Mafia-contrived set up. British Intelligence MI5, a devastating ambush, a beautiful Maltese girl, action that moves from the Falkland Islands to Ireland, from London to Palermo and Malta - are all ingredients in this deadly game of life or death...

THE LAST PATROL

An award winning short story

Send your comments and get the chance to win a book.  info@concept2malta.com

 I opened my tired eyes, eyes that looked out from a throbbing head that existed in an exhausted body. Another restful sleep had been denied and as a result, I felt shattered. I closed my eyes again but sleep wouldn’t comfort me, instead it became a source of torment. In annoyance and in a symbolic act, I rubbed the tiredness away from my eyes and found myself feeling quite philosophical and wondering just what the hell was this thing life all about?

 At 20 years of age, my dour thoughts emulated those of an older person. Stress and tension were the key attributes into this behavior with too many long hard hours and not enough rest and recovery.,,,and a few other things.

 Raising my head from my bunk bed, I looked around at the cramped, dreary and gloomy living space spiced with heavy fetid air. The hut like accommodation had been ‘home’ for 30 odd guys and the immediate area was shared with 9 other soldiers of my unit. These guys were now part of my family. Family, yes something positive had materialized and our bonding had been proven in many ways and would last eternally. Hopefully eternity would appear more realistic if we could get over this last day…. There, the same word had appeared in my head again.. last day, last patrol. Like the others, the last patrol syndrome had made me phobic.

 Tomorrow, Saturday 14 April was our leaving day after 4 long months of peace keeping duties in the province, this year would later acknowledged as the worst in Northern Ireland’s already sorrowful history. Tragically, our unit was already destined to go home minus 2 members and two more would never physically be able to play conventional football again and another would never see the beauty of the rising sun or his new born son’s first smile.

 The tiredness, the danger, and now into the last day of a confusing role in a modern day active service that wasn’t quite a war …. the frustration would finally end for us on the morrow and it wasn’t a day too soon.  

One tiny problem, my section in the ever changing roster would spend it working foot patrol duties in a notoriously hot area, one of the most dangerous in the province. Operating in such a danger zone had created this last patrol stigma and the heavy anxiety that abounded was plain to observe. Opposing players often worked this unlucky final day theme into their tactics to try and make it the last day on earth for some of us. Naturally this tactic created more tension and some soldiers in extreme cases would find anyway to avoid last patrols. This wasn’t a conventional war or even a conflict, it was a misery of mind bending attrition that was destined to never have a happy ending. This time and place was a fast burning fuse trailing to a powder keg of conflicting human emotions leading to an ever expanding repertoire of new ways of dying. Dying here wasn’t a great way of immortalizing the struggle in what would eventually be a fruitless useless waste of life against a wasted headstone of ignominy and 6feet of  soiled earth. Our role was to stay in the middle of it all and be generally detested for our efforts, no bands for a heroes return after serving here. European Vietnam… possibly

I continued to think out the last patrol ideology until somebody stirred in the hut, this seemed to signal the awakening of us all. We must all have been lying in our bunks silently pondering, silently fretting. Without many words of greetings, we collectively made our way through the military clutter than lay strewn around our pathetically small and run down living space and went outside into the ablutions hut. The washroom was another decrepit hut that amply personified the general ambience.

“This time tomorrow.” One of the lads said light heartedly as he lathered his face.

Strangely no quip is offered

After a hastily and ritualistic eaten breakfast, clasping piping hot coffee in black plastic mugs, we gathered and slipped into our pre patrol system huddling together sitting on our small soldier boxes than held our meager possessions. Apart from 3 days leave, the 4 months had consisted of daily patrolling sometimes as long as 18 hours when the anti went even higher than usual. So wardrobes of fancy civilian clothes weren’t required in this profession. Again, the section unusually quiet appeared reluctant to discuss this our last patrol in any shape or form.

The coffee mugs were put away as we prepared to get rigged up.  Rigging up was an art form with Denison smock camouflage jackets, flak jacket, belt order, first aid pack, batons, tin hats, riot gun and our third and most important arm, the 7.62mm self loading rifles playing the leading role is this identity. The obvious care in handling our personal weapons said it all, the playtime bell had long since sounded.

 Superstition had never grabbed me until I came here, but evidently we’d all developed some form of superstitious behavior or even moved deeper into our own different faiths and beliefs. Secret prayers were often mouthed, I would notice rosary beads being slipped into pockets, lucky rabbit’s feet, pictures of wives and girlfriends went into the flak jacket pockets. I fingered my bracelet as I always did before leaving the hut subconsciously. I stared down at the bracelet and brought back the story.

On the overnight Liverpool to Belfast ferry 4 months previously just before grabbing the last peaceful rest for a while, I wandered alone onto the open passenger deck to get some evening air and contemplate a few personal thoughts. Few passengers were about as I placed my hands on the guardrail and stared out to observe and enjoy the night serenity of the murky looking Irish Sea. Making the atmosphere somber, the moon was partially hidden by clouds giving scant illumination and also a haunting tranquility. I sucked in the salted air and spent a few moments in reflection about the impending tour and my recent promotion to Section commander and its seemingly impossible responsibilities in the troubled Belfast streets.  After a few minutes alone suddenly there was a feeling of being watched and I looked away from the movement of the sea to look behind me. In the shadows by the bulkhead I could see the outline of a tall slim man staring at me with some interest. While observing him, he advanced toward me without the slightest threat and I could distinguish a priest’s collar at his neck. The Moon appeared from behind a cloud and allowed shafts of light to penetrate the priest’s features for a few seconds.  He cocked his head at me and spoke with a soft lilting southern Irish accent.

“These are dangerous times my son. Sad and dangerous times indeed. You must take good care.”

I studied the speakers face and noted an unusual bemused expression of melancholy in his features. He looked in his early 60s with strong chiseled features and a even jaw. His vibrant blue eyes looked away for a wistful moment at the faded grey clouds that wisped in a straggled collection in the inky coloured sky.

 His eyes burned brightly as he spoke to me again. “You’re a young man to witness such troubled and turbulent times.”

I didn’t answer him but waited for him to speak again knowing he’d earmarked me for some reason.

He swept his hand over the full head of iron grey hair as he spoke in that easy going voice of his. “Those Irish streets that witnessed love and laughter will darken with sorrow for a long sad age before the sun eventually shines there again.” Strangely transfixed, I felt fascinated with his words and demur it seemed like I’d known this man as fondly as a favorite uncle.

“You are young,” he continued. “And your eyes will witness a soup of human tragedy that seems endless in its composition. Your efforts may appear to be wasted and in vain but a country cries in pain and your presence will be of tremendous comfort to some. Take good care my son and may the lord Jesus Christ watch over you and may the Peace of Christ be with you always.”

With that blessing, he exited swiftly leaving me alone at the guardrail and quite bizarrely I felt sorry to lose his company that had lasted  just a few moments. After a few seconds of pondering his words, I noticed on the deck where he’d been standing beside me at the rail a small silver bracelet. I picked it up and read the words inscribed on the bracelet. ‘BLESS ME.'

  Although I searched for the priest for nearly 30 minutes throughout the ferry I never came across him again. Before I slept in the tiny cabin that night, I wrapped the bracelet around my wrist fastened the clip that fitted perfectly and felt reluctant to remove it.  Since then it became instinctive to secretly expose it and read the inscription each time we left the safety of the base camp to go out on patrol.

I entered the operations room for the section's radio’s and a last minute briefing on the day’s activities and patrol agenda. My second in command was an older and experienced marine called Barry who'd accompanied me. We had developed a firm friendship and intimate mental understanding without the need for long conversations or in each others pocket socializing. We left the briefing with the intelligence officer in the knowledge that the area had been active throughout the morning following a series of gunshots during the night but thankfully hadn’t produced serious casualties.

I addressed the section as we assembled around into the armoured Saracen personnel carrier with our equipment.

“We’ve been performing this role for 4 months now in a systematic military precision, which makes us very professional, remember that. Today, we will see little exception in anything we have seen, dealt with and situations we have been involved with. Keep it tight and keep focused and everything will be ok.... It’s just another day at the office.”

 My words seemed quite assured for a 20 year old with a background I would have rather forgotten. I’d grown up on the streets of Belfast and learned about people responsibility and more importantly to the others in the section, I had matured into a good urban guerilla tactician.

“Let’s go” I ordered. We snapped our magazines onto our rifles at the loading bay and then climbed into the vehicle.

“Home tomorrow,” Somebody said to break tension.

“It’s Friday the13^th today. Let’s beat the crap out of this patrol before we think about the ferry ride back.” A dour but well respected lad from Newcastle added. “And then...maybe I’ll buy you all a beer.”

“First time ever that.” Somebody nipped in. “And not that naffin brown ale stuff either you northern jocks love.” We laughed collectively as the driver squashed the accelerator with his sized 10 boots and passed through the barbed wire gates and sandbagged machinegun post. The Saracen's engine screamed its distinctive pitch as we out roared out of the safety and into the streets of our last patrol. A hush inside the vehicle was evident and the mood became more serious than any that I ever recalled on the tour. The driver of the Saracen flattened the pedal and the last patrol began

 It was a grey day with grey threatening clouds that matched the general ambience of a tortured city. Serious looking people went about their lives walking along anxious streets in a desperate way. The locals didn’t seem to stroll or saunter in their everyday lifestyle, pedestrians seemed to march with chins on chest angled at the pavements without much hope or resign, they walked with purpose not pleasure.

Everything looked bleak.

 The first few hours went by and I couldn't help recalling the words of the priest on the ferry came back as we worked through the naughty streets.  ‘A long time before the sun shines again,’ he’d said. Then I realized what his words had really meant.

 The afternoon arrived and it was time to patrol the sensitive areas again. The foot patrol away from the vehicle base comprised of 6 men, it moved with ease in well drilled organised tactical movements. 6 heads, 6 pairs of eyes, working as one well oiled team. The purpose of the patrol was to signal a visible presence of force in an attempt to deter violent acts and encourage authority. This was a land ridden with the sorry cancer of violence blended with revenge born from lousy politics and a sour history. Patrolling these troubled areas where major incidents could flair or even full scaled riots could escalate with the speed of a wind blown forest fire. Violence would break out from the tiniest gesture between communities with the merest insult fuelling incidents that instigated bombs, bullets and blood. Inevitably before the sun came down the undertakers would be busy making new boxes for other poor souls. Entire streets looked cold and unsympathetic with abandoned and derelict houses riddled with bomb scars and bullet holes. This land cried out with a passion.

 The patrol kept moving without the intention of provoking new problems. Some streets were so notorious for snipers and machine gun attacks that their notoriety became legendary and strictly avoided where possible but my duty was to keep a presence and defend the option of eliminating no-go zones

The afternoon dragged slowly on but somehow or other in my mind a tangible threat always seemed to exist, we’d collectively sensed it though we didn’t allow the luxury of the fear indulgence to initiate our fears further. We were psyched up, revved up and worked with a vibrant energy I hadn’t witnessed before. Something, somehow we knew would inevitably would happen that day, I tried to rationalise why. Was it simply Friday the 13^th syndrome, or the last day and the last patrol phobia?   No, It wasn’t just these things, it was something else - deeper almost spiritual instincts, something I couldn’t read or understand… and would never understand. My understanding of this complicated life had limits

 Rifle leading the way, thoughts of home away from my head as a cold wind picked up as I lead the section toward an exposed junction filled with derelict buildings riddled with bullet holes, alleyways and danger.

God help me this was it…. This is where it would happen, the cold wind couldn’t cool the sweat on my brow and rationality wouldn’t quell the anxiety and tension. Some primeval instinct, an extra sense made me believe there was a real chance I could end my life here. My knuckles whitened holding the stock of my SLR, 3 men each side of the street, front men covering the forward area,  middle men the sides, last men walking backwards covering the rear. Hard targets, don’t standstill, switching the alert switch to full. What was the common weapon used against us?

Answer, M-16 Rifle, 39 inches long, 6.5 lb empty, 7.6 lb loaded, uses ball and tracer ammo only, a full magazine weighs 2/10 lb, magazine carries 20 rounds, gas operated, air cooled, selector switch has 3 positions (safe, semi-auto, automatic).  Maximum range 2,653 meters, maximum effective range 460 meters.  Rate of fire, 650-700 rounds per minute on full automatic, 150-200 rounds per minute when reloading 20-round magazines. Over 8,000,000 M-16’s made. On impact, the 5.56mm caliber piece of lead makes a small hole in your front and then blows out your back as the bullet spins on impact. Nice to know small interesting trivia like this when you enter a hot zone. Jesus Christ please help me today as I die in an alleyway then forgotten.

  The radio crackled… a stolen car has been set alight at a waste land a few streets away. We looked above the rooftops to see spiraling smoke ascending majestically up to the heavens.  We have no option but to check it out, this could be a COME ON, getting us into a killing zone, exposing us to a sniper’s bullet or a radio controlled bomb. This was max danger time.

"Shit."

Orders were given with the fewest words necessary. We moved off and soon approached the sight of the burning car from the least obvious direction from an alleyway between rows of houses, which at least gives us moderate cover. The car was burning like firework night 5th November, but instantly obvious was the fact that nobody was around to witness the spectacle. This was bad news as lack of people commonly equates to an incident happening, We watch, we observe in the relative safety of the alleyway. The radio crackles again with the news that the burning car was used in a shooting incident between the occupants and a police patrol.

 “Whiskey one, one Charlie, there could be casualties or weapons in the car, investigate, over.”  

“Shit,” I exploded with passion and quickly began to issue orders to minimize exposure to the patrol, I made an instant decision that only two members of the patrol are needed for the task , the rest would cover us. Selecting one of the patrol, a guy named Terry for the reconnaissance, the plan is to move fast in and fast out and give the vehicle the once over. Subconsciously, I checked and rubbed my bracelet, my heart was thumping fast, I really didn’t want to do this with so many exposed dangers for myself and the section. I began to try to control my breathing pattern and played forward the impending movement strategy in my mind.  The movement options, a jinking sprint to the car, a quick visual check careful not to open or touch anything that might trigger an explosion. The danger lay on the run in and the time spent at the car.

 I felt like vomiting. I couldn’t move for a second, I checked my bracelet again and closed my eyes trying to suppress my fear with prayer. I opened my eyes feeling ready and focused.  I nodded at Terry.

“Move.”

We dashed out into the direction of the car feeling incredibly exposed, weaving to the burning car waiting for the explosion or a few ounces of spinning lead that could easily puncture skin and bone and sluice the life blood into a gutter. Panting for breath, I arrived 5 meters away from the burning car, Terry following closely behind me took up a firing position a couple of meters away. I crouched down to look underneath the car but saw nothing unusual; I tried to see inside, bad vision obscured by smoke ruined that plan…… I would need to get closer to the car.

“Cover me,” I whispered to Terry. Terry swiveled around in a slow 360 turn with his rifle tight in his arms. I sprinted toward the car and looked inside as wisps of smoke from the dying flames allowed vision in the back seat ….nothing.  I began to move to the front driver’s door when I noticed something shiny on the floor, it was made of silver, a bracelet just like the one I was wearing it had BLESS ME on it. It was my bracelet, had it fallen off ?  I bent down to retrieve it.

Bang….. SMASH!

The sound was accompanied by segments of the car window that broke and sprinkled the interior of the car and a few segments that fell onto me, then the driver’s window caved in just behind where I’d been standing. Lying on the floor with the bracelet in my hand and fragments of glass nestling in my hair; I was stunned, almost paralyzed with shock until I Jumped to my feet with my rifle poised. No obvious threat however my senses felt magnified with an incredible adrenaline rush. The sound of running boots broke the eerie spell I seemed to be encapsulated in as Barry led two more members of the patrol toward me. Barry stopped in front of me with wide eyes, white face and incredulous expression of awe.

 Military automation took control and we followed up, patrolled where we thought the snipers position might have been, but we didn’t find anything. Within 25 minutes, the patrol was assisted by the stand by section and we were ordered back to the Saracen to reorganize.

 Later, the patrol finally finished without any further incident, however  our immortality had been questioned and we were all shocked at how close the grim reaper had been in inviting us to his lasting residence. 

The next day, finally, we left the province and once on the night ferry back to Liverpool we relaxed and sighed with relief judging by the amount of corny jokes bouncing about. After settling into the cabins, we headed for the bar, for beer, talk of pretty girls, backs slaps and promises of better and brighter days. A Feel good attitude progressed intermixed with tilted glasses more corny jokes and a general gratitude of survival. We’d taken our bonding to a level that would never witnessed be by any of us ever again. The overall relief was enormous and overwhelming and soon we began to remember those that weren’t as fortunate as us, which altered the atmosphere considerably. At this juncture nearing midnight and feeling the need for clean fresh sea air, I slipped away from the group and stepped up to the upper deck of the ferry. Few people were around so I picked a space alone on the rail staring into the Irish Sea. In this prose I tried to fathom out things spinning in my head.  It felt comfortable spending a few moments in isolation thinking about the incident on patrol the previous day. The word lucky pricked my conscience until a distinct feeling made me seek out the area behind me. A figure was immediately noticeable sitting at a bench with his back cutting a shadow against the bulkhead. I spent a few moments absorbing the detail before stepping across to the figure simultaneously unfastening my bracelet on my wrist. I looked up to the night sky and inhaled deeply feeling enchanted

 I stood behind the figure that hadn’t yet moved, but they must have realized somebody was close to him because my steps had been clearly audible.

 Knowing somehow that it was me that had to break the spell, I uttered quite evenly. “I believe this belongs to you.”

 The priest turned around, his deep blue eyes boring into mine with that same distinct melancholy expression

“No my son,” he answered straight away as if expecting the question and smiled warmly at me. He patted my hand gently, grasped the bracelet, looked at it and placed it into his long black overcoat pocket.

 © Copyright Ken Lake 2007