For two weeks last month, rural west Wicklow became upland western Syria as the Defence Forces tested themselves in a mock-up of the buffer zone between Syria and Israeli-occupied Syria that they now patrol.
For the purposes of the exercise, the Jordanian border ran through Hacketstown. West of Rathdangan was all Israel and Israeli-occupied territory. Sugar Loaf Mountain, just beyond the cross roads at Knockanarrigan, became Mount Hermon straddling the Syria-Lebanon border.
To the east lay Lugnaquilla mountain, deep inside Syria, with a main highway bisecting the buffer zone slicing over it and on to Damascus (aka Dublin).
Coolmoney Camp, the Defence Forces' base for field and live fire exercising in the Glen of Imaal, was turned into Camp Ziouani, headquarters of the United Nations Disengagement Observer Force (UNdof) for which the Army's 48th Infantry Group is today the Force Reserve Company, and their main base on the Golan.
In the upstairs of an old farmhouse in the camp, a Joint Operations Command was set up. Known to everyone as “the Joc” with a hard “c”, as in “doc”, it mirrored how UNdof is run but in this instance Defence Force officers not involved in the pending deployment set tasks for their colleagues in the 48th – and a few surprises – and observed the results.
Staff officers of the 48th were meanwhile installed in a drab olive, 20ft long steel cargo container-like box called C2. The sides of the box extend to create a battlefield command and control centre, replete with its own computer server, overhead projector, map table, screens and seating for seven officers with designated functions such as Ops and Watchkeeper.
A squawk box hanging on one wall crackled and hissed with radio traffic – between the Joc and C2, between C2 and commanders in the field – while platoon commanders came and went, papers in hand, seeking orders, reporting back.
Outside C2, at various stages over several days, Mowag armoured personnel carrier and cavalry reconnaissance patrols, came across mock road-blocks, ambushes, attacks on a UN post and internally displaced people.
There would be night exercises, with live fire, and debriefings – hot washes as they’re known – at which decisions taken under pressure would be examined, and perhaps questioned.
For the Joc, the 48th’s officer commanding, Lt-Col Mark Prendergast, and his team, and for the exercise director, Lt-Col Liam Condon, and others in the Military College, there is only one question to be asked at the end of all this.
Are they mission ready?
***
The day began with a “groundhog” as everyone was having breakfast. Groundhog is when the base is taking in-coming, that is, it’s under attack. Everyone – kitchen staff, administration officers, infantry soldiers, diners with mouths full of toast, no exceptions – drops what they are doing, dons armoured protection and dives into the nearest bunker.
It happens regularly for real in Camp Ziouani.
Middle-rank officers have a saying: shit rolls downhill. It expresses their barrack-room perspective on the chain of command. There was quite a lot of hilly terrain as the 48th’s mission readiness exercise peaked in mid-March.
Inside C2, captains Phelim Carroll (information officer), Cormac Brady (operations) and Liam McDonnell (combat service support) are sitting at screens, entering data, and swopping information between themselves. They are watched by Capt Mick McGrath, the eyes and ears of the Joc, who sits expressionless, motionless and saying nothing – just watching and listening.
C2’s squawk box springs to life: “callsign 31 reports a large explosion SSE [south south-east] of their position,” says the Joc. Three-one is supposed to be a UN observation post.
“South south-east would put us in the area we’re going to today,” McDonnell explains to me. “There’s no change to our situation but the conduct of the patrol will need to be cautious. They’ll be anticipating anything. Basically, they’re not going there for a walk.”
Carroll turns to Brady: “We don’t know if that was artillery or an IED [improvised explosive device] or what. But I need to know exactly where the explosion happened because I need to brief the patrol commander on his route.”
Brady radios the Joc. “RFI [request for information] sent,” he says to the room.
When should that be answered, asks someone.
“As soon as; as soon as. . .”
“Sir,” says Carroll as Comdt Paul Kelly, commander of the Force Reserve Company and second in command of the Group, as he enters the room, “we have a report of an explosion SSE of the UNP.”
UNPs are the UN’s observation posts in the buffer zone. Those on the Bravo Line, the eastern boundary of the zone, have been abandoned since last August’s attacks by insurgents (armed elements in the language of UNdof).
Several posts on the Alpha Line, the zone’s western boundary, have also been vacated. Today in Wicklow, a mock post – a concrete and glass observation tower – sits on top of Cemetery Hill looking across a valley to Lugnaquilla.
“We’re getting more information from the Joc?” asks Kelly
“Yes sir,” says Carroll.
“We’ve been tasked with a high tempo reoccupation of the post,” McDonnell chips in, the latest missive from the Joc.
“Did we get any H-hour on this?” asks Kelly, H-hour, like D-day, being the moment action commences.
“No,” they all say.
“OK. So H-hour we can set for ourselves at this stage. So we’ll set it for early morning,” says Kelly growing into his role. “They want surprise, they want decisive action, they want tempo. So by doing that, we need to look at H-hour early in the morning.”
***
As dusk approaches, the Joc has ordered 2 Platoon at the post on Cemetery Hill to go on patrol which they do in convoy; four Mowags off down towards Knockanarrigan crossroads and back. What they’re not told is that while they are away, the post will be over-run by armed elements.
It’s dark by the time they come back, slowing down as they near the gate, now blocked by a transit van and several armed men in civvies.
Suddenly, flares light the night sky. Spiralling to earth on tiny parachutes, they turn the night into an eerie, glowing day for 30 seconds as they descend. The patrol stops instantly, Mowag hatches down. Lt Ronan O’Brien, platoon commander, waits, watches and thinks for a moment.
One of the men blocking the gate raises his weapon, a mock AK47; O’Brien orders the patrol to accelerate and barrel on past the gate and out of danger.
Capt Dave Clarke from the Joc, who is watching it all from Leitrim Woods, is pleased. “That’s good,” he says, “that’s good.”
Back at C2, there’s a chorus of ribbing when O’Brien enters.
“You fucking lost the UNP,” Brady and the others shout at him.
“No I didn’t,” says O’Brien, blushing and smiling. “I left it in good hands; it was the other blokes.”
In a brief hot wash, O’Brien explains he barrelled because, while the raised weapon posed a threat, there was no immediate danger to his patrol and he had no way of assessing what sort of weaponry might be concealed in the van – a rocket propelled grenade, perhaps – and so prudence suggested accelerate out of danger.
Good call, it’s agreed.
***
At 1900 hours C2 is crammed with 16 officers. The Joc has directed that the post, which has been completely over-run by armed elements, is to be re-occupied by force.
Comdt Kelly has been writing a six-page, incredibly detailed command order – effectively his battle plan – based on information accumulated during the afternoon and early evening by Capts Brady and Carroll, as well as the Joc’s ever changing demands.
Everyone crowds into one end of the C2, the centre of the low-ceilinged room dominated by a hand drawn, scaled map of Cemetery Hill, the surrounding terrain and routes, created by Capt McDonnell.
Platoon commanders O’Brien and his colleagues Lt Conor Hurley, commander of 1 Platoon, and Lt Stephen Keane, commander of the cavalry reconnaissance patrol (the most high-tech of all the Mowag patrols) and Lt Jane O’Neill, engineering officer and leader of the de-mining team, will lead the attempt to re-take the post.
“It’s all pressure now,” whispers McGrath from the Joc.
Kelly starts reading aloud his order. “I intend to conduct a deliberate, high tempo reoccupation operation on the UNP, clearing it of all non-UNdof personnel and securing it for handover to follow-on UNdof forces.”
He goes on to explain how they will do this in six phases, deploying “in a highly mobile and robust posture with maximum force protection. . . operating within the rules of engagement” but using combat power to overwhelm the insurgents if necessary.
Keane’s patrol will take up a position on Old Mill Hill at Ballyvogan, giving him oversight of the post. If the others get into trouble, he’ll see from there and can intervene. The assault will be led by O’Brien’s platoon, bumped up by a section from Hurley’s platoon, the remainder of whom will wait in reserve.
UNdof Fijian soldiers will be drafted in to secure a perimeter around the whole operation. Engineers and ordnance will be on hand for mine clearance if needed.
“OK,” says Kelly. “Happy enough?”
They all nod; “100 per cent, sir,” says Keane, “100 per cent”, even though no one yet knows the start time.
The room empties but Brady walks back in a moment later.
“H-hour is 0900,” he tells Kelly, “they’ve just decided.”
“OK, we need to be ready by 0800.”
“Real life, sir,” says Brady just so Kelly knows his next comment is not part of the exercise, “kitchen’s closing in five.”
**
Next morning, Camp Coolmoney is blanketed in a deep, heavy frost. The grass is stiff and crunchy, the banks of wild flowers sown by Camp Comdt Derek Hanley have yet to break through.
On a hard stand behind his office, Mowags, Scania trucks, the engineer's de-mining truck, and other vehicles sit, their engines throbbing, pumping clouds of exhaust fumes into the cold air.
“Right,” Kelly says to section leaders crowded around him for a final brief, “quick update on the situation.”
The Joc has been changing things overnight. There are now internally displaced people around the UNP and government soldiers have also been seen nearby. Observe the refugees, he directs, and report back to him so he can alert the relevant agencies. Keep an eye on the soldiers but they’re outside the buffer zone so they should not cause problems.
“Questions?” says Kelly.
There are none; they know the drill, “100 per cent, 100 per cent”.
The operation is deployed in relays, starting at 8.40 – or H-hour minus 20, as they call it.
Keane’s reconnaissance patrol pulls out of the camp first; then the perimeter platoon under Lt Sean Gough, which is in place just before 9am.
At H-hour, radio traffic confirms everyone is in place, including Hurley’s reserve platoon and, three minutes later, O’Brien’s beefed-up platoon approaches the gates where last night he was confronted by armed insurgents.
He calls in Lt O’Neill and her de-miners to check the gate and a 50m radius. They do; it’s clear.
Up the track to Cemetery Hill and the post, two people in civilian dress, refugees perhaps, or maybe armed insurgents trying it on, emerge from the post.
“Stop!” shouts the commander of the first Mowag which is in front of O’Brien’s. “Keep your hands out. Move towards me.”
They do so and are questioned about how many others are in the post and where. The Mowag gunners train their sights on and around the post. Satisfied that the two pose no threat, they are told to carry on walking.
“Don’t worry,” says O’Brien as they pass his Mowag. “Keep your hands up till you get to the gate. You’ll be alright.”
“That’s good,” says one of the Joc’s watching umpires. “He didn’t have to say that but he did.”
The crew of the first Mowag dismount and move towards the UN post, rifles up, at the ready. Two more unidentified men emerge from the post, arms in the air but one is carrying objects that are difficult for the soldiers to identify from a distance of some 50 metres.
They are shouted at to drop them. They do. They are told to open their jackets and turn 360 degrees, their arms in the air the whole time. They do and are told to walk towards the edge of the post, one at a time.
“Don’t be too hostile lads,” Cpl Charles Wright, the section commander, says to his men. “Come to me,” he shouts to the unidentified men, “come to me.”
He separates the two, who appear to be mouthing words in Arabic, and shouts to a colleague: “McGuigan! No matter what, don’t let him move.”
The other man turns and runs back to the post.
“Fred!” shouts Wright, “Oi! Come back.”
But he doesn’t at first.
Gradually, the patrol inches forward closer and closer to the post tower. The runner reappears, arms raised, and walks back to his erstwhile colleague.
“Keep their hands out,” shouts Wright, “keep them separated.”
Wright has one of the men empty his pockets. He has a mobile phone and what appears to be a radio transmitter hand-set. Wright takes them and tells the man to keep his arms raised. The second man also has a mobile phone. It too is confiscated.
The patrol moves by stealth – passing three portable toilets which it does not search but goes instead to the stairs up the side of the tower, mounting them and entering the observation room at the top. It is empty.
O’Brien meanwhile has dismounted from his Mowag and approaches Wright. The corporal briefs him that the tower is clear; he has not searched the toilets because he fears they may be booby trapped and he’ll leave that to the de-miners.
At H+100, O’Brien radios Kelly: “Sterile theatre.”
***
At the hot wash back at camp, the Joc officers and umpire observers from an earlier UNdof mission reckon, from what they’ve seen, that the soldiers of the 48th are better prepared than they were at this stage in their training.
The “pretend” aspect of the Glen of Imaal exercise got a little less so for the final part of the 48th’s training – live fire, some of it at night.
Up on Old Mill Hill, Capt Seán Ryan and Lt Finian Everard had set up pop-up targets, a heavy machine gun flanking fire position from Hill 279 just above it, and positions from where the Mowags can blast off their 7.62 medium machine guns and 12.7 heavy machine guns, firing with impunity into the side of Cannow Mountain.
Lt O’Neill has buried kilo-sized simulated mortar bombs in the ground about 20min front of dug outs of sandbags from where the riflemen can fire at the pop-ups. The killing radius of a 40mm grenade mortar is about 70m; serious injuries will be sustained up to 150m out.
Ryan and Everard give the go-ahead for firing to start. The Mowag gunners let rip and tracers slice through the air, ricocheting vertically into the sky as they bounce off the ground on the side of Cannow. Herds of deer scatter on the far valley.
Cut-out figures pop-up on the slope in front of the riflemen Lt-Col Prendergast among them, and bullets start pinging and sparking off them.
O’Neill remote-control detonates the mortars. They explode with a deep, dull thud that sends grass and mud spattering into the air.
Battle simulation is noisy and intense but the mortars really up the ante.
“Get the fu*k to seven zero! Get the fuck to seven zero,” screams a section commander to his riflemen, Prendergast included, as they scurry back to the Mowag 70.
Ryan is amused. “He’ll never get to say that again to his CO. He’s enjoying the moment!”
