Blood, Sweat and Tears E-Book

Tom Clonan

• Herausgeber: Liberties Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Irish troops have served 40,000 individual tours of duty over four decades in Lebanon. All over Ireland, in almost every family, there is a father, a brother, a sister, son, daughter or cousin who has come under fire in South Lebanon. Forty-seven Irish troops died in Lebanon and thousands more have returned with physical and psychological injuries. Blood, Sweat and Tears tells the true story of the Irish at war. Clonan brings the reader on a tour of duty in Lebanon from 1995 to 1996. His vivid account brings you from a rain-swept Dublin Airport on a dark October night to the massacre of 118 innocent men, women and children in the village of Qana, South Lebanon in April 1996. The reader is taken on patrol with the Irish army and shares in their black humour, their fears, frustration and pain. It is through this odyssey that the heartbreaking nature of peacekeeping operations as seen through Irish eyes is laid bare like never before. Blood, Sweat and Tears is above all a story of personal loss, loneliness and the psychological trauma of military service in a time of war. As the narrator comes to terms with the slaughter of innocents around him, he will ultimately be confronted with the loss of those closest to him at home in Ireland. 'Tom Clonan brings to life the sights, sounds, smells and characters of southern Lebanon. His beautifully written book is in turns funny, gripping and heart-breaking.' - Lara Marlowe

Leseprobe

Blood, Sweat and Tears

An Irish Soldier’s Story of Love and Loss

Tom Clonan

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Map of Irish Battalion’s Area of Operations

Foreword: The Lebanon–Israeli Conflict

1 The Leb

2 Irishbatt

3 Al Yatun

4 How Did I Get Here?

5 Saved by an Accordion

6 Natural Justice

7 Teacher to Soldier

8 The Compounds

9 Mary Robinson Wears No Knickers

10 Bodies in the Wadis

11 November

12 I Am Secret Man

13 Cockroach Hall

14 Ten out of Ten

15 December

16 Only Ten Shopping Days to Christmas

17 Christmas in the Holy Land

18 Happy New Year

19 Finnbatt Range

20 Calvin Klein Spring Collection

21 February

22 We’re Only Prawns

23 Don’t shoot him now. Shoot him on the way back.

24 St Patrick’s Day, Damascus

25 Animal is Dead

26 April

27 Grapes of Wrath

28 Collateral Damage

29 Qana

30 Home

31 A Farewell to Arms

32 Births and Deaths

33 Post Script

Plates

Copyright

For Aideen,

Darach, Eoghan, Ailbhe, Rossa

&

Our precious angel, Liadain

&

For the men and women of the 78th Battalion, with whom I am proud to have served in Lebanon

Foreword

The Lebanon–Israeli Conflict

I kicked and squealed my way into this life in the Rotunda Hospital on Dublin’s Parnell Square in the summer of 1966. As I did so, Palestinian militants crossed the border from Lebanon and infiltrated the Israeli settlement of Margaliot – known in Arabic as Hunin. In the pre-dawn darkness, they planted a series of explosive devices among the dwellings and homes of the sleeping village. Their mission – to kill as many Jewish settlers as possible. This latest action was just another in a series of hostile acts that would mark the beginning of a long and bitter cycle of violence between Lebanon and Israel. The rest, as they say, is history.

As my Mum held me that summer morning, I doubt if she was aware of unfolding events along the Lebanese-Israeli border. My Dad, a Dublin policeman based in Pearse Street Garda Station, did not have far to walk to greet me. As he made his way into the Rotunda, I doubt if he gave the Middle East a thought.

During that summer in Dublin however, a new chapter in the long and tragic history of the Middle East was opening in Lebanon. Little did my parents know then how that history would become an integral part of their newborn son’s personal journey. In attempting to set out some of that personal journey here, I will try to bring you to Lebanon and back.

Operation Litani – The Israeli Invasion of Lebanon

By 11 March 1978, I am ten years old. I’m riding my red bicycle up and down Ballygall Avenue. I got it for Christmas. In Israel, little ten-year-old Yitzhak Ankwa, known affectionately as Yitzik, is excited. He is going with his little sister, Galit (aged two), on a bus trip along Israel’s coastal highway just north of Tel Aviv.

As the Ankwa children play and fidget and gaze out of the windows in the tour bus, Dalal Mughrabi and ten other Palestinian guerrillas are rowing quietly ashore at the beach at Ma’agan Michael. Just one mile from the Israeli coastal highway north of Tel Aviv. The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP) and the Palestine Liberation Organisation (PLO) had fled to Lebanon in the late 1960s and were well established in the Lebanese coastal cities of Tyre, Sidon and Beirut at the time of the Ankwa family’s day trip. Mughrabi and her fellow guerrillas have reached Israeli territory from Lebanon in Zodiac rubber dinghies. They have managed to navigate the short distance south along the Mediterranean coastline undetected. Approaching the beach, they’ve cut the engines and are paddling gently ashore.

Gail Rubin, a forty-year-old photographer from New York is also on the beach at Ma’agan Michael. She is taking shots of wild seabirds among the marram grass. She is oblivious to the approach of the Palestinians. They splash ashore and begin unpacking and assembling their weapons. Kalashnikov assault rifles, grenades, explosives. Gail turns into the salt sea breeze of the Mediterranean and is taken by surprise as a number of figures approach her from the surf. She squints to see who else might be on the beach this early. Perhaps they are fishing.

The Palestinians approach her. And Gail knows in her heart and stomach that something is terribly wrong. They are too intense. Too close. Crowding around her and her camera equipment. At gunpoint they demand directions to Tel Aviv. She feels a surge of adrenaline. She thinks of her parents, Jonathan and Estelle, in their family home in New York. For Jonathan and Estelle it is Friday night, Eastern Standard Time. They have lit the Shabbat candles and prepare for the short Kabbalat Shabbat prayer service. They pray for their precious daughter. Their only child.

Gail focuses on the gun pointed at her. Aimed point blank towards her head. Her mind is racing. Fear, disappointment, sadness. Before she can say ‘no’, or ‘please’, there is a loud crack. Gail does not hear this sound. Only a sudden, inexplicable force which pushes her backwards and upwards. Then wet sand on her skin. Seeping cold through her clothes. The warm rush of her own blood mingling with the salt and sand. The Palestinians file past her lifeless body. Stepping around her camera equipment, they begin moving towards the coastal highway.

The Egged tour bus with Yitzik and little Galit on board suddenly slows and comes to a halt on the highway. Figures on the road waving it down. Through the window, the Ankwa children can see the glittering Mediterranean. Then, another series of loud cracking sounds. The man in front of them slumps in his seat as the Palestinians take the bus at gunpoint. The children stare at the blood sprayed all over the window and seatback.

The bus is driven south by the Palestinians. They shoot passengers in the bus. They shoot at passing cars. The children scream and weep. Parents plead. One by one, they too are shot. Including thirty-eight-year-old Haviv Ankwa. The bus is eventually halted by Israeli police at Herzliya. Thirty-eight Israelis are killed in the hijacking. Seventy-one are wounded. All of the Palestinians are killed. The Ankwa children die also.

The incident is known in Israel as the Coastal Road Massacre.

Three days later, the Israeli Defence Forces invade Lebanon in Operation Litani. They occupy the southern part of Lebanon in order to crush the PFLP and the PLO.

And two months later, in May of 1978, the first Irish troops arrive in south Lebanon as part of the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon. They arrive as peacekeepers.

As I write, in the summer of 2012, the Irish Defence Forces are still soldiering in Lebanon. The Irish army have had an almost continuous presence in Lebanon over four decades. Over that time, many thousands of Irish soldiers have witnessed at first hand the bitter internecine violence within Lebanon. They have also witnessed the subsequent Israeli invasions of Lebanon in 1982, 1993, 1996 and 2006.

In total, Irish soldiers have served more than 40,000 individual tours of duty in Lebanon. All over Ireland, in almost every family across the country, there is an intimate link with Lebanon. An uncle, perhaps. A cousin. A niece. A son or daughter who has served in the cause of international peace. Despite this intimate linkage with the suffering of our brothers and sisters in Lebanon and Israel, there is little public understanding of our military involvement in Lebanon.

This book is intended to redress that imbalance. It takes the reader to Lebanon through the eyes of a young officer on his first tour of duty overseas. It reveals the true nature and intensity of peacekeeping operations. The book reveals for the first time what war is like for Irish soldiers serving in Irish uniform under the UN flag. It speaks frankly of the psychological stress and fear experienced by Irish troops under fire. It speaks of the squalor of modern warfare. And the suffering and pain inflicted on innocent civilians – men, women and children alike.

I served in Lebanon as an artillery officer with the 78th Irish Battalion from October 1995 to April 1996. As a lieutenant, I was Group Commander of the Dismountable Element of the Battalion Mobile Reserve (BMR). The BMR was the mobile armoured element of the Irish Battalion. It acted as the rapid reaction force of the Irish Battalion in Lebanon. It was designed to act as the ‘911’ element of the force – the first responders to any major incident within the Irish Area of Operations (AO). These incidents ranged from intervening in and preventing the killing of innocent civilians, to armed confrontations with Hizbullah or the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF). My fellow officers in Lebanon jokingly referred to this unit as the ‘Disposable Element’ of the BMR because of the number of armed confrontations in which we became involved.

The account given here of my time in Lebanon is based on actual events recorded in the official Unit History of the 78th Infantry Battalion. This unit history is held at Military Archives in Cathal Brugha Barracks, Dublin. The hostile incidents and escalation of combat operations throughout south Lebanon described in this book are recorded in detail in the Unit History. The war between Hizbullah and Israel which took place in April of 1996 was eventually named Operation Grapes of Wrath by the Israeli Government of Shimon Peres. The first-hand account of Operation Grapes of Wrath given in this book is based on my own personal experiences, diaries and letters.

However, in order to protect the sensitivities of my fellow soldiers, I have changed the names, distinguishing details and characteristics of those Irish troops with whom I served in Lebanon. As a consequence, apart from myself, the soldiers described in this book are not based on any real person, living or dead. They are composite personalities. Any resemblance to the actual members of the 78th Battalion is entirely coincidental. I have employed this device out of respect for my colleagues who suffered so much – and gave so much of themselves – in the most harrowing of circumstances in Lebanon. To this end, I have endeavoured to create a narrative that protects the identities of the living and the dead alike.

I give an account of a suicide in this book. Whilst there were no suicides during the 78th Battalion’s deployment, I experienced at first hand the suicide of several fellow soldiers during my military service. In addition to those killed in action in Lebanon, a small but tragic number of Irish soldiers died by suicide there. I include the account of suicide in their memory. I include it also in order to highlight the pain and suffering brought about by the growing prevalence of suicide in Irish society.

In summary, the incidents in this account of service in Lebanon are based on actual events recorded in the Unit History of the 78 Infantry Battalion, UNIFIL. However, I have used some artistic licence to protect the identities of colleagues and have, from time to time, incorporated some of the experiences of other Irish soldiers in order to give a broader focus and a more rounded feel to the book. I have done this to provide the reader with an authentic sense of what it was like to serve in the Irish army in Lebanon at that time.

It should also be noted that the account is based on my experiences of the Irish Defence Forces of the mid 1990s. The book is firmly located in that place and time. There have been many changes in the Defence Forces since then. This book is a snapshot of the past. It is an honest attempt to tell the true story of the Irish soldier in Lebanon at that stage of the Defence Forces historical development.

In attempting to contextualise my military service overseas, I have also made extensive reference to my own personal and family circumstances. I have done so in order to try and communicate a wider truth about soldiering, fatherhood, insight and loss. I refer to the personal in order to try and communicate the individual catharsis that experience of conflict can bring. For some, that catharsis brings insight into the truth of our fragile human existence. Perhaps even closure, with the ability to live a reflective and fulfilled life. For others, there is no reflection. No closure. For some soldiers, there is no way home. Some seek comfort and oblivion in alcohol or other drugs.

I tell this story in memory of all those Irish men and women who have soldiered abroad under the flag of the United Nations. In whatever army. In whatever conflict. I tell it in memory of those who never came home and who lost their lives in the cause of peace. I tell it particularly for all of us who came home altered. For tens of thousands of Irish men and women, a part of their hearts and souls remains in Lebanon.

Finally, I write this for peace. I write it in solidarity with the suffering of our brothers and sisters – Arab and Israeli alike – in Lebanon and Israel. I write it for all those innocent civilians who are caught up in the horror of modern warfare. For war is not principally a story about soldiers and guns. It is a story about the suffering of innocent men, women and children who fall victim to the tragic failures of our political leaders.

Chapter 1

The Leb

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God

Matthew 5:9

‘In the unlikely event of a loss of air pressure within the cabin, an oxygen mask will automatically be lowered in front of you.’ October, 1995. The air hostess is just finishing the usual routine about mid-air explosions and death at 37,000 feet and so on. The Aer Lingus Airbus has already started rolling. I squeeze myself tighter into the window seat and try to get a last glimpse of Ireland. The 2 AM raindrops roll sideways across the glass.

Then, there is the roar of engines as we gather momentum and speed down the western runway. Rattling overhead bins. The banging and slapping of tires accelerating over the concrete. Two hundred and twenty men on the aircraft – the first rotation of troops – known as ‘Chalk 1’ heading for the Leb. There is total silence as fathers, brothers, sons, lovers, are lost in their own thoughts – thinking of loved ones sleeping below. Thinking of their own now-empty beds, hundreds of them in homes all across Ireland.

And then the aircraft lurches into the air. Climbing. I strain to catch a final sight of Dublin. And there she is. Dublinia. Aglow below me. Bathed in a sodium wash of orange streetlights. Necklaces of light strewn from the Dublin foothills towards the bay. Dense coils of light at the city centre. Then, the cloud base, grey and black. ‘Good luck and fuck ye,’ says Corporal B in 7A. There is a ripple of laughter. I say a silent prayer – even though I don’t really believe in God – for my parents. I think of my girlfriend down there. Somewhere in the city.

It is a six-hour night flight to Beirut. But I cannot sleep. So, I wander around the gloom of the aircraft. Some of the air hostesses are engaged in whispered conversations here and there. They smile as I pass. I meet the Padre, Father Ryan, coming out of the toilet. ‘First time?’ he asks me. Then, leaning conspiratorially towards me, he speaks in a low voice, filled with urgency. ‘Drink as much water as you can, Thomas. Beirut is hot as hell. Otherwise you’ll be totally de-hydrated before we even get to the coast-road.’ So I drink about three litres of water.

Some of the troops are eating oranges. Guys I don’t recognise from A Company – the Dubs. Or ‘The Vikings’ as they are referred to in Army parlance. They are wolfing those oranges down and smiling in a slightly sinister way. We are all bound for the same destination. Post Six Four Zero – Al Yatun. As they devour the fruit, the A Company troops eye me with that peculiar mixture of contempt and curiosity which is reserved for junior officers. Especially ones they don’t know. Junior officers are generally regarded by the troops as a necessary evil. At best. And at worst, a health and safety hazard.

I meet some of my own guys from the Battalion Mobile Reserve. The BMR. We are the 911 of the Battalion. I am especially proud of this status. We are a mix of cavalry and artillery – troopers and gunners – who will provide the emergency response for the entire Irish AO. When there is trouble, we’ll be called out. When the shit hits the fan, we are ‘operational’. I love it.

When I told my Dad this interesting fact, he let out a low whistle. ‘Couldn’t they get some other fuckin’ eejit to do that job?’ But I was ready for anything. Mexican stand-offs at checkpoints, firefights – imagine! – I was all set. I was oven ready. Thus perhaps confirming the troops’ well-founded suspicion and fear of junior officers.

My Battery Sergeant, my right-hand man, approaches me. BS Begley. A Gaelgoir (native Irish speaker) from Kerry. He is built like the proverbial brick shithouse. He is very soft spoken and unusually quiet for an NCO. He has taken me under his wing and thus far managed to keep me out of trouble. For the most part. ‘Relax,’ he says. ‘We’re passing through Turkish airspace now. We’ll be on the ground shortly. So if I were you I’d try to get some rest. You’ll be busy enough when we get there.’

I take his advice and head back to my window seat. On the way I make eye contact with the rest of my NCOs. Sergeant Bracken nods in reassurance. A Kildare man, he has also adopted me. He has endless patience. The three corporals are watching me and grinning broadly. Corporal Kennedy from Balbriggan in Dublin is hard to read. Cold blue eyes. He hasn’t said much to me since the form-up of the battalion. I’m told he’s ‘rock steady’. I’ll find out soon enough. Corporal Burke from Donegal is highly strung. He calls out to me. ‘How’s about ye?’ as I pass. Corporal Smith from County Meath is a young guy. Maybe twenty years old. He is reading some geeky computer magazine. He doesn’t look up.

As I screw myself back into the seat, the officer next to me opens one eye. ‘Where are you posted?’ he enquires.

‘Al Yatun.’

‘I’d rather have a hot poker stuck up my arse,’ is his reply as he pulls his cavalry Glengarry down over his eyes. That gives me food for thought.

*

The plane begins its descent, the Mediterranean suddenly below us as we track south over the Lebanese coastline. Flying east, the sun has risen. The sky is cobalt blue with the sea glittering below. We bank left and are descending into Beirut airport. The city is ringed to the north by mountains. It is incredibly beautiful. White apartment blocks. White villas with red-tiled roofs. Palm trees.

As we make our final approach the suburbs flash below us. Like a show reel. Swimming pools. Elaborate terraced gardens. A blur of red rooftops. Beirut. The Paris of the Middle East. The thunk of the wheels lowering. The rush of air. Then the bump and roar of airbrakes announcing our arrival.

‘Fáilte roimh go léir go dtí an Liobán,’ says the pilot.

‘Fuck you too,’ says Corporal B in 7A. More laughter.

Things move rapidly. The senior officers are up standing. The troops are up fumbling with the overhead bins. Like schoolboys going on a daytrip. But the nervous tension of earlier is gone. The Company Sergeant (CS) in charge of our reception – who arrived a week earlier – is the first through the aircraft door.

‘EVERYONE SIT THE FUCK DOWN,’ he roars. Everyone, officers included, sits down. ‘EXCEPT THE OFFICERS,’ he clarifies at 1,000 decibels. We stand up again. We file out.

I am squinting as we emerge into the glare of brilliant sunshine. My first impressions of Lebanon. The smell of aviation fuel. And the heat. A wall of shimmering, super heat. The Padre eyes me meaningfully as he swigs from a two litre bottle of Ballygowan. Ballygowan in Beirut. As we dismount and climb down the rickety steps, I am physically counted in-country by the Battalion’s Executive Officer (EO). ‘Welcome to Beirut, Thomas.’ The Battalion EO is also from Dublin and gives me a wink. A friendly face. Good to have a potential ally in a senior officer at Battalion Headquarters.

There is a row of tables on the tarmac. At the first table I am greeted by the ordnance staff. ‘As per Annex A, to Ordnance Guideline 1, I am required to ask you the following questions,’ a staff sergeant intones. Then in rapid-fire staccato, ‘Are you carryin guns, rifles, pistols or firearms of any kind including pen guns? Are you carrying plants, animals, birds or living creatures? Are you carrying poultry?’ I am thinking about this when the CS interrupts from the rickety stairbridge to the plane. ‘GET A FUCKING MOVE ON.’ I am directed to the next table where I am given my UN identity card.

A Medical Corps Sergeant with a very unhealthy smile is carrying a Shamrock Rovers kit bag. The kind that kids carry to school. ‘Aha, a Lieutenant,’ he observes. He rummages in the bag and produces a set of metal discs on a cheap silver-coloured chain. ‘These are your dog tags. Lieutenant Cloonan.’

‘Eh, Clonan,’ I correct him.

‘Whatever.’

‘Sir.’

‘Just put it around your waist – loop it through your belt like so. You don’t put it around your neck like in the movies. Cos if you get your fuckin’ head blown off we’ll never find them.’ That made sense all right. I thanked him and wrapped the dog tags around my waist. ‘0.9721 LT CLONAN THOMAS BLOOD GP A’. My mother would have keeled over at this point. I made a mental note not to tell her about the dog tags. Especially the avuncular advice about getting your ‘fuckin’ head blown off’.

I then become aware of a crowd of soldiers off to the side in the shade of an aircraft hangar. Their uniforms are sun-bleached and they are deeply tanned. They are watching the aircraft very closely. Like vultures. Waiting for the main body of the troops to exit. I suddenly realise they are Irish soldiers. As Chalk 1 rotates into the Area of Operations, these 200 or so troops are rotating home after a seven-month tour of duty. They have had a quiet, uneventful tour. Then, as the first of our battalion begin to file off the aircraft, the outgoing group burst into a deafening roar. Cat-calls. ‘I’ll be ridin’ yer wife this time tomorrow night ye sad bastard ye.’ ‘Happy fuckin’ Christmas.’ ‘Only seven months to go – but whose fuckin’ countin?’ Whistling. Cheering. Clapping. Stamping. Some are banging bits of timber off the corrugated walls of the shed. The noise is deafening. One of them starts up on a bagpipes. The piper is playing ‘Silent Night’ at full volume. Reminding us – somewhat cruelly – where we’ll be spending next Christmas. There are some Lebanese workers watching intently from the shade. I imagine they find the Irish a curious lot.

In less than an hour, we are off the aircraft and sitting in a fleet of canvas-covered trucks. French army trucks. Ancient, high-axled Renaults. The outgoing, home-bound troops have boarded the Aer Lingus jet. The airbus taxis away from us in the shimmering heat. It seems to move through liquid. We watch in silence as it thunders down the runway – heading west, climbing over the Mediterranean. Full of laughing, sweating Irish soldiers. On their way home to wives, girlfriends, families, kids. To God knows what. And we are finally, definitively, irretrievably in the Leb. ‘At last,’ I’m thinking, ‘adventure.’ I take in the guys in my truck. Good. There’s Corporal Kennedy, my Dublin NCO. The rest are mainly infantry. ‘The Vikings’ from A Company. They are muttering mutinously about the heat.

We wait in the trucks. The heat is searing. No movement. Hurry up and wait. In classic Army style. The CS moves up and down the vehicles. ‘Our Lebanese fuckin’ army fuckin’ escort has not arrived. Be fuckin’ patient. Believe me gentlemen, and be advised, we’ve all fuckin’ day to get to the hills.’ Then it starts.

In my truck, one of the soldiery announces, ‘I’m dyin’ for a piss.’ This is followed by a chorus of ‘Yeah, I’m dyin for a piss.’ Corporal Kennedy turns towards me and stares at me with his cold, baby-killer blue eyes. ‘Well?’ he asks. The moment has arrived. This is my first command decision overseas. I am also at bursting point. I silently curse the Padre and stand up to issue my first order.

I am however being overtaken by events. Some of the lads are climbing down off the truck and emptying their bladders in all directions. In fact, for one moment, I’m positive that at least two are having a pissing competition to see who can pee the farthest onto the tarmac. I stand up and issue my first order in a live operational environment in the Middle East. I remember my training – CLAP: Clear, Loud, As an Order and Precise. I manage to blurt out, ‘Eh, get back in the truck.’ Nobody hears me.

Then, I hear the CS. ‘GET BACK IN THE FUCKIN TRUCK. WHO IS IN CHARGE IN THAT TRUCK? WHO THE FUCK IS IN CHARGE OF THIS? THIS, THREE RING CIRCUS?’

The troops scatter and are calling out in unison, ‘It was that Lieutenant Cloonan, CS. He told us to take a piss before we hit the road.’ The CS appears at the rear of the truck. His face is red with rage. Veins bulging at his temples.

‘Eh, that should be Lieutenant Clonan, not Cloonan,’ I inform him.

‘OK Lieutenant Cloonan. This is a fuckin’ muslim country. They don’t like seein’ penises under any circumstances.’ He is joined by a staff officer from Battalion Headquarters. Another red-faced man. I recognise him as Commandant Molloy. A ‘renowned’ ex-GAA ‘star’ and all-round golden balls. He peers in at me.

‘Cloonan. I fuckin’ knew it. We’re only in-country one hour and you—’

Before he can finish the sentence, the trucks roar into life and we jerk forward. I am – not for the first time, and not for the last time – saved by the bell.

Our Lebanese army escorts are lethargic looking. Draped across the back of two old US jeeps, one cradles an M16. Another is leaning against a point five machine gun. It doesn’t look as though it has been fired in a long time. In fact, I can see rust on the recoil mechanism from my perch in the back of the truck. Corporal Kennedy has slid down the bench and is sitting next to me. He too is squinting at the Lebanese soldiers bouncing along the pot-holed road alongside us. ‘Fuckin Israelis,’ he says. I am thinking of pointing out the fact that we are not in Israel when we are interrupted. One of the A Company soldiers is shouting from the other end of the truck. I can hardly hear him over the noise of the engine and the flapping of the canvas cover. I can’t see him either over the mountain of kit bags and boxes piled high in the bed of the truck. ‘What’s your nickname sir?’ is what I can make out. They are all laughing now and I don’t like the liberal atmosphere I detect among the infantry. Or the ‘infantiles’ as they are referred to by the Artillery Corps.

Corporal Kennedy leans in and whispers urgently in my ear. ‘Fuckin’ ignore them A Company heads.’ I, however, have decided to finally, once and for all, take control of this truck. I stand up and grip the overhead bar. As the truck bumps and sways over the potholes, I declare in a voice that everyone can hear, ‘Listen up ladies, I don’t have a nickname. But you can call me sir. Is that clear?’ There is an instant round of applause and, feeling pleased with myself, I sit down again. Corporal Kennedy is shaking his head. The next thing I hear is a disembodied voice shout, ‘Shithead. That’s his nickname. Shithead.’ There is more laughter. Corporal Kennedy looks at me point blank. ‘I told ya not to say anything, didn’t I? They don’t call them the ‘empty-heads’ for nuthin’. Let me look after it. Sir.’ Corporal Kennedy then slides off the bench and disappears into the throng. All hell breaks loose. I hear a loud series of thumping noises.

Eventually, Corporal Kennedy re-emerges. Smiling beatifically. ‘They have decided not to proceed with nicknames,’ he announces. Alarmed, I ask him if he’s assaulted anyone in A Company. He cocks his head sideways. ‘Praise where praise is due, and management where it isn’t. Do they not teach you that in officer school?’

Meanwhile the southern suburbs of Haret Chbib and Dawha are receding behind us. All along the coast road we see men walking hand in hand. The troops find this endlessly amusing. Everyone we see is smoking. Boys selling fish from wooden crates. Smoking. Soldiers everywhere. Smoking. Some with black berets. Some with red berets. Some on motorbikes. Some in pairs on motorbikes sitting side-saddle. All smoking. And everywhere there is rubble. No building seems complete. Bullet holes and crumbling plasterwork on every façade. The streetscape is an unending crazy maze of ramshackle buildings. Children are running alongside the vehicles. The troops are throwing whatever food they have out to them. Bottles of Ballygowan. Yoghurts. Apples. Chocolate. Everything except the oranges.

And everywhere there are wires looped around poles, trees, draped from buildings. There is no order. No regular or predictable urban feature. Sudden gaps between the houses where bomb craters lie. Collapsed bridges. Flattened cars. Every so often the brains, spines and entrails of sheep, cows and goats are displayed proudly on metal hooks beside doorways. Great clouds of blue flies swept away from the meat on display by small boys. Women dressed in black glare at us from doorways and windows. We pass by a wooden shack on the side of the road. A painted sign reads ‘Al Pacino Chiken’. Corporal Kennedy spies it. ‘We must stop in that gaff and try the Al Pacino chicken thing out. Next time we’re doin convoy security up to Beirut.’ I look at him. He is serious.

As we approach the coastal city of Sidon, the motorway opens up. We pick up speed. Two of the A Company soldiers are puking over the tailgate. I’m told that the oranges were full of vodka. Apparently, the infantry guys had a paramedic with them in Dublin who injected the fruit with vodka. Some of the guys are more than half cut.

We drive through Sidon. The trucks slow to a crawl once more. Lebanese men in ancient Mercedes honking incessantly on their horns. Tens of thousands of mercs driven by men with moustaches. Again, all smoking. The noise is incredible. There are no apparent rules of the road. Some of the younger Lebanese guys are driving tarted up mercs along what I assume is the footpath. Every now and again we skirt around a car driving the opposite way through the throng. Drivers and passengers shaking their fists at all and sundry. Arabic music blasts in and out of the truck from passing cars, from windows and from ghetto blasters on the outdoor stalls. Eventually we exit south from Sidon’s crammed streets and pass what looks like a vast municipal dump on the side of a hill. On closer inspection however, the ‘dump’ turns out to be a Palestinian refugee camp. Millions of Palestinians live in abject poverty within Lebanon. Treated like second-class citizens, they are forced to eke out a miserable existence in camps such as this throughout the country.

We hear a popping sound. Like bangers at Halloween. The trucks accelerate. Everyone is now lying on the floor of the truck. We are being fired at from the refugee camp. Corporal Kennedy is grinning at me. ‘They fuckin’ hate the Lebbos. But they fuckin’ hate the UN even more.’

Our convoy comes to a halt in the late afternoon not far from the coastal city of Tyre. We have arrived at the River Litani. The Litani is the gateway to South Lebanon. We dismount from the trucks and stretch our legs. It is like a scene from the catechism books I had in primary school. The Litani flows gently along grassy banks lined with palm trees, olive groves and vines. Even lemon and orange trees. The troops are now urinating en masse into the Litani. I join them.

‘STOP PISSING IN THE LITANI! IT’S A FUCKIN’ SACRED RIVER FOR GOD’S SAKE!’ The CS has re-appeared. We are ordered to put on flak jackets as we have officially entered the free-fire zone.

I am called away by the Battalion Executive Officer. He spreads a map over the bonnet of a white UN four-wheel drive. ‘OK Thomas, this is where we were fired on.’ He marks the map with a red military symbol and hands it to me. ‘When you are commanding the convoy security next week, remember to navigate away from this area. Maybe you ought to get out here and recce the route.’ I appreciate the kindness of Commandant Evans. I also appreciate his confidence in me.

When I get back to the vehicle lines, the BMR is now being shaken out by BS Begley. I’m the last to get to the flak jackets and helmets. The flak jacket I get has no ballistic plates. They’ve been long lost, or stolen or sold or who knows. My blue helmet has a skull and crossbones crudely drawn on the front. ‘Born to Die’ is scrawled under it in black permanent marker. ‘Cool helmet, Sir.’ Corporal Smith has abandoned his computer magazine and is examining the radio frequencies provided by the outgoing BMR signals team. We have now entered the Area of Operations.

Chapter 2

Irishbatt

Your Lebanon is an arena for men from the West and men from the East. My Lebanon is a flock of birds fluttering in the early morning as shepherds lead their sheep into the meadow and rising in the evening as farmers return from their fields and vineyards.

Kahlil Gibran, Mirrors of the Soul

Our stop at the Litani allows us to impose some semblance of order on the troops. Our ‘Order of March’ or OOM is now organised along a unit by unit basis. With the Battalion Mobile Reserve split into two – a vehicle at the front and rear of the column – we begin to trundle south from the Litani towards Tyre. From there, we will head east, inland towards the Irish AO.

The terrain is spectacular. Tyre is home to the coliseum where Charlton Heston races his chariot in the movie Ben Hur. As we move east the old town gives way to more ramshackle suburbs. Houses are built to a height of two or three storeys and appear mostly unfinished. They are concrete and stone affairs with rough sand and cement dashing. The roofs are flat with twisting metal and iron girders protruding from the rough concrete finish. BS Begley – this is his fourth tour of duty in Lebanon – explains to me that the upper floors will be built upon as finances allow and as more members of the extended family join the original inhabitants. ‘They’ll extend out and up to house their children and their wives and families. Whole family groups or clans live in extended houses.’ Children are running alongside the convoy. We’ve run out of food to throw to them. The troops wave. The kids are laughing and shouting in Arabic.

Dotted among the houses are massive red-tiled villas on their own grounds. Surrounded by elaborate terraced gardens. Some have lawns with sprinklers. Most are gated with electronic monitoring systems, CCTV cameras, buzzers and intercoms. According to BS Begley, these houses belong to local ‘notables’ – daoine mór le rá – such as doctors, politicians and businessmen. Many are empty for much of the year. A lot of the Lebanese – similar to the Irish – emigrate to the US, Africa, Asia or further afield in the Middle East to avail of opportunities outside of war-torn Lebanon. The Lebanese, I will discover, are natural raconteurs and communicators. And, like the Irish, they are warm and friendly – charming, but also deeply passionate about their country, culture and history. For millennia, Lebanon, with its Mediterranean coastline, has been an important trading post between Asia and Europe. Beirut, like Damascus in neighbouring Syria, is on the ancient Silk Route. As a consequence, perhaps, they are intensely interested in foreigners. They are highly skilled in reading character and establishing common ground. It seems to me a tragedy that they are locked in conflict with Israel.