The Pillowcase

County Down -The North of Ireland, April 1979

As with so much else, it was the paradox that dominated. The mellowness of the Green fields harshly dissected by damp tarmac, winding unevenly amidst measured hedgerows and endless trees. Flecks of blossom competing with the Yellows and Browns of tired fields and buildings that kept livestock and secrets in equal measure. The scene was like few others and had no mirror to reflect what was hidden. Death was evident but only to those who knew.

The coded message and the map reference matched and two phone calls later the command was placed and so a silent ritual commenced. At 6.27am, Four Army Land Rovers moved within a mile of the site, each taking a position notionally linked to the points of the compass. Three minutes later, each unit began snaking their way on foot to an agreed point, the only noise permitted was that of feet and screaming hearts, such was the fear not admitted. Trip wires were sought along with evidence of disturbance in an otherwise untouched part of the countryside, unlikely to receive day-trippers or school parties. A radio conveyed the location of the units all correctly in place and at 7.33am, each soldier stopped and having engaged the cover command watched with eyes that did not blink. What they saw unfold before them was a procedure many had only witnessed on exercise. The simulation did not feel like this, thought one teenager, already so tense he could barely breathe. A Saracen stopped on the road, out of which emerged two individuals, awkward in movement inhibited by their suits but clear in intent, opening a rear door and lowering what looked like a child's toy pram. Watched by the unseen and with minimal delay, the remote controlled scanner moved smoothly for a handful of meters and stopped. An arm extended, with a spasm, from which a camera became evident. The image relayed to the monitor confirmed a picture that was expected and so offered a perverse comfort that there was no surprise. A hooded body, presumed male, wearing the uniform of Her Majesty filled a flickering screen that only that week had introduced colour. Hands were tied and the feet were without any footwear, socks or otherwise. A bleached white pillowcase concealed the simple truth of a bullet wound to the rear of the head, biased towards the left ear. Additional searching by the unloved robot indicated no other signs of secondary traps and so, with a lightness of tread that belied his size, the Officer approached the crumpled mass. He bent down and seemed to place a kiss on the cheek of the body but in fact was the rudimentary evaluation of life or death. The inspection of the corpse and issued information via radio merely stated the obvious. The name, that of Simon Jacks, a Corporal, was confirmed Seventeen minutes later at which point the stiffen remains were removed.

A military press release issued a few hours later drew a line under a familiar scenario, confirming that the IRA had claimed responsibility for the death of an occupying enemy agent. It went on to detail that the family were provisionally informed and told they would be visited by a Junior Officer within 48 hours, the purpose of which was to confirm that Simon Jacks was a loyal soldier, highly regarded, brave and a credit to his Regiment. He could expect to be buried with honour with his colour party made up of his immediate comrades who would be granted special leave to travel back to the main land. The Army would meet the full cost of all funeral expenses although as a matter of policy would retain all items of his personal effects.

His parents were never told of the circumstances of their son’s death other than it involved working on matters of great secrecy. Mrs. Jacks never really understood what that meant.