But how could I possibly do so, given my family background? Paradoxically, I realised that my father had actually served in the RAF for a number of years himself, and my mother had worked as a secretary for the British Ministry of Defence (MOD) before they moved back to Ireland. My grandfather, too, I’d heard, had served with the British army during World War II. Slightly ironic, I realised, but no one ever seemed to have had a problem with it, so why should they have a problem with me doing the same now?
Nonetheless, I didn’t tell anyone of my plans at first, and spent a good few months just thinking it through. Then in April of 1997 I wrote a letter to the British army careers office based in Belfast, enquiring how I should go about joining up. A month later, I received a reply. It turned out that joining up as a citizen of the Republic was going to be a slower process than I’d expected, but I sent off the application form and waited.
And waited. And waited.
About six months later, in October 1997, I got a letter instructing me to attend my first interview the following month at St Lucia Barracks in Omagh. The instructions were very precise: I was to get the bus from Dublin to Omagh, make my way to the Silverbirch Hotel, and check in under the name given to me in the letter. It all seemed a bit over the top to me, but I went along with it willingly.
The journey from Cork to Dublin and then on to Omagh was uneventful, but I did find myself suddenly more interested in the British army towers and patrols I saw as I crossed the border. I had never seen so many armed police and soldiers; the IRA must have been more active than I thought, I reasoned.
Somewhat self-consciously, I checked into the Silverbirch Hotel that evening. I was to be at the main door the following morning at 0900 hours to be picked up and taken to the interview. I was hungry, though, so I popped down to the hotel bar to grab a bite to eat. I ordered a steak and a pint of Guinness, careful not engage in conversation with anyone as I felt I should stay inconspicuous. How foolish I felt then when I was settling the bill and the barman asked me straight out: ‘Ready for your interview tomorrow?’ I was like a deer caught in headlights and he laughed: ‘It’s okay, son, they all stay here before they go over.’ I went back upstairs to my room, double-locking and chaining the door, convinced that the IRA could well be coming for me.
The following morning, outside the door of the hotel, a car pulled up beside me and a guy with a Northern accent yelled out the window: ‘Hartnett?’
Jesus, I thought, was this guy trying to get me killed? I was still a little skittish from the previous night’s episode and stood there in shock for a few seconds until he eventually shouted again, ‘Get into the fucking car, will ya, or we’ll be late!’
I jumped into the passenger seat and, much to my surprise and amusement, I barely had the seatbelt on when we drove up to the entrance of the camp. It was right across the road from the hotel.
In the waiting room there were about ten other candidates, and I stuck out like a sore thumb; not because of my background, though, but because – brought up by my mammy – I had gone to the trouble of dressing in a suit and tie. Everyone else was in jeans or a tracksuit. How was I ever going to fit in? I wondered.
At least I didn’t have to sit there for too long. Since I had the furthest to travel home, I was first in.
The interviewing officer was a captain in the Argyle and Southern Highlanders and a jovial enough guy.
‘So why the British army?’ was his first question. Upfront and personal, I think he was going for!
I replied with the reasons I had prepared: family connections to the British Armed Forces, my wish to travel, etc. He seemed happy enough. Then threw me a curveball.
‘How do you think you’ll manage as a Catholic in a Protestant army?’
I turned it back on him without batting an eyelid.
‘I didn’t realise the British army was a Protestant force. I thought it was non-denominational.’ He smiled at me.
‘Good answer! You’ll hear from us in due course with a date for your second interview and fitness test. In the meantime, keep training and stay out of trouble!’
It wasn’t until the following January that I got another letter to attend the same barracks in Omagh for my fitness test, aptitude tests and final interview in February. It was time to tell the family. Even though I worried and fretted about it, their reaction couldn’t have been better: they were only concerned for my safety, especially with what was happening in the North.
‘You won’t be posted to the North, though, will you?’ my mother asked.
‘Of course not,’ I assured her. How was I to know!
We agreed it was best to keep it to ourselves for the time being.
The fitness test involved a 1.5-mile run, two minutes of sit-ups and two minutes of press-ups. I had been training for months beforehand and was well able for it. I did the run in less than ten minutes, and managed a hundred press-ups and a hundred sit-ups. I didn’t have any problems either with the aptitude test or the final interview, and in fact I did so well they were suddenly offering me the choice of any military trade I wanted. With some help from the recruitment staff, I decided to train as a radio technician with the Royal Corps of Signals, which would give me a decent trade when I eventually left the army.
And that was it. I was to become a member of the British Armed Forces.
Six weeks later I got news of my starting date for training. I was to register on the first of September at Palace Barracks in Holywood, Co. Down.
My family was very worried now; just two weeks previously, the Real IRA had killed twenty-nine people and injured more than 200 with a bomb in Omagh. It was the single biggest loss of life in the Troubles. Whatever about my family worrying, I was more determined than ever now to sign on the dotted line.
I arrived at the train station in Belfast and a driver was there with my name on a card. He drove me to Palace Barracks. I was expecting some sort of ceremony as I took the Oath of Allegiance to the queen, but there was no such thing. I was taken into a room with an army officer and given a piece of paper to read from. Where were the bands and the parading soldiers? There was just a picture of the queen hanging on the wall and that was it. I read the words aloud as instructed. They sounded hollow to me and even though they were only words, something didn’t feel right about it. My heritage, my Republican upbringing and my years of observing the Troubles from that perspective were objecting to what I was doing. But it was too late.
I was driven to Belfast City Airport and put on a flight to start my basic training and take the Queen’s Shilling.
3 SWIFT AND SURE
It was a Friday afternoon when I arrived home and, after the initial family time, I took the short walk to the local pub in search of my first pint in four months. There was the usual collection of locals propping up the bar. I made my way to the back of the lounge and stood alone waiting to be served. I spotted the owner, Maureen, as she moved up the bar towards me. I had known her all my life and she never seemed to age a day in that whole time.
‘Guinness, Seán?’ she asked.
‘When you’re ready, please, Maureen.’ As she pulled the pint she looked me square in the eye and asked: ‘So how is the British army treating you?’ She smiled while my jaw dropped. ‘There are no secrets in this place, Seán, you
