UNIT UK

Part One: Selection

'Your attention please,' said the grizzled-looking Sergeant at the front of the Catterick Barrack's schoolroom. He didn't raise his voice but it got my attention - and everyone else's, his voice having the penetrative power that comes from long practice on a parade ground. 'If you will open the envelope on the desk in front of you.'

Cue a rustle of paper as fifteen officers, non-coms and privates opened their Top Secret UNITPCA docket.

' Thank you. Now, please notice the title of the document enclosed: "Official Secrets Act, Emergency Peacetime Provisions, Addendum." You need to sign the green flimsy, the pink flimsy and the yellow flimsy. The white flimsy, underneath the yellow, is to be retained by yourselves for reference. Press hard with the biro or it won't come through clearly.' I separated the white flimsy, because – if this selection process worked out – I'd most certainly need it for reference, and for remaining out of prison.

Inevitably, there was a joker in our pack, who stuck up his hand. Corporal Williams. He'd been terse and withdrawn in the earlier sessions, mocking where he'd even deigned to comment.

'Can I read all this stuff, Sergeant?' he asked. The sergeant nodded, gimlet-eyed, silently, in a manner yours-truly has come to recognise as I-May-Be-Saying-Yes-But-I-Mean-NO. Corporal Williams took a long five minutes to read the small print. Everybody else had finished, pushed back their chairs and were looking out of the schoolroom windows or were tapping fingers on desks.

'I'm not signing this!' declared Corporal Williams. 'I'm not signing this. It's a load of –' He opened his mouth to carry on protesting about how he didn't like the terms of the Official Secrets Act, Emergency Peacetime Provisions, Addendum, only being prevented by the arrival in the room of two Royal Military Police, who made a beeline for his desk.

'Corporal Williams has decided to serve his full sentence. Will you please escort him from the barracks?' said our sergeant, flatly and with as much emotion as if he was ordering a scotch and soda.

Corporal Williams looked highly surprised, not to mention severely peed-off, as the burly redcaps manhandled him out of the room.

'Thank you. I shall now collect all completed flimsies,' said the sergeant, deadpan, as if nothing had happened. He did just that, visiting all desks, carefully checking all the signed sheets.

'Wrong date. Sir,' he told the captain sitting behind me – Strasser, from the Devon and Dorsets. Captain Strasser hastily amended his flimsies. Come to that, I checked the date on mine. Also, I checked the quadrangle outside, where loveable Corporal Williams was being cuffed by the red caps in efficient and unkind fashion..

Once the sheets had all been collected, our formidable overseer relaxed slightly. He addressed the fourteen of us.

'Very good. Have any of you gentlemen heard of Warrant Officer Talfryn Davies? From the Royal Welch Fusiliers? No? Excellent.'

Why "excellent"? I wondered.

'W.O. Talfryn, who had lately joined UNIT, decided to earn a little pin money by selling his life story to the tabloids. The tabloids told us what he was trying to do. What he is currently doing is fourteen years in Long Lartin. Upon completion of sentence, he will be served a dishonourable discharge, lose his pension and will never get any editor to touch him with a barge-pole. Just so you know.'

Ah. Apparently violating the OSAEPPA is detrimental to one's health.

The sergeant continued.

'To make it plain, none of you will ever divulge what you experience or learn of at UNIT, until or unless the United Nations sanctions it. Keep schtum, no problum. Tell tale, go to jail.'

The second part of that last sentence had a very particular resonance with me.

Perhaps now would be a good time to introduce myself. Lieutenant John Walmsley, of the Queens Lancashire Regiment. Born Wigan 1949. Why did I apply to join UNIT? That's another set of questions. Like most in the British Army, I'd heard of the recently-arrived UNIT, in the sense of "those wierdoes who deal with other wierdoes", who reported to Geneva instead of Whitehall, who didn't wear the blue beret of normal UN peacekeepers, who'd been involved in Quote terrorist action unrelated to Northern Ireland Unquote. My simultaneous involvement and downfall came in early 1971, at a place called Beacon Hill Research Establishment. Beacon Hill was the home to an astronomical research centre, focussed around a pair of radio-telescopes, full of boffins doing boffin-type research, listening to the stars chattering to each other and all that.

Except that in early 1971 a terrorist group tried to destroy the centre and it's telescopes. UNIT were involved, to the extent of killing the X-Rays (sorry – jargon for terrorists). We in the QLR, having been on duties at nearby Aldershot, were part of the outer cordon placed at one mile's distance from Beacon Hill to keep press and public from intruding, intervening or generally making a mess of things. Confirm, cordon, control.

Conversation among my platoon ran along the lines of "Why are those UNIT pansies doing all the glory-work?", "How many UNIT dead are there?" and "Bloody Hell how many dead X-Rays are there!" We'd counted three military ambulances, presumably doing cas-evac from the action, none of which were hurrying, so their occupants were either dead or not badly injured. Our platoon frontage covered the A287 leading to Farnham and I stood on the road with a clipboard, backed up by Sergeant Roke and Corporal Staines. The Bedford 3-tonner carrying dead terrorists warned us to get out of the way merely by honking loudly, a greeting we returned with several Anglo-Saxon gestures and phrases. Quite by coincidence I happened to be looking into the rear of the vehicle as it sped past.

No great care taken to cover them up, I thought, seeing a large tarpaulin covering a mound of bodies. The 3-tonner went over a pothole on the road, a corner of the tarpaulin flew up and I saw –

Let us just say that they weren't what you'd expect killers determined to destroy a radio-telescope to be. In fact, that glimpse reminded me of a small excursion into Farnham earlier in the day.

'Sergeant,' I called, puzzled, beckoning. Sergeant Roke politely came over; he was the one who really ran the platoon whilst I learnt the ropes, but he maintained a fiction that Lieutenant Walmsley was in charge.

'Yes, Boss? Something up?'

'Ah – well, I'm not sure, entirely. Did you get into Farnham on leave this morning?'

He shook his head. RHIP, truly (Sorry – "Rank Hath It's Privileges").

'I did, Sergeant. There were a lot of men in town there wearing big plastic heads, handing out big plastic flowers. A promotional thing. Like they do in the States.'

Sergeant Roke nodded wisely, not seeing where this was going.

'They were promoting – oh, I don't know – British Plastics Awareness Week or the like. Dressed in blazers and with silly big plastic heads on. And when that Bedford went past, I saw under the tarp in the back, and the dead "terrorists" happened to be those same plastic-promoting men in daft carnival masks.'

That set the imperturbable Sergeant Roke back on his heels for a few seconds. His advice, wise beyond his accounting, was succinct.

'That's UNIT for you, sir. I never heard anything sensible about them. Best you forget about it and pay attention to regimental matters.'

That wasn't good enough for me. What made things worse was hearing the BBC later describe whatever happened at Beacon Hill as a "training exercise gone wrong". There was considerable chat in the mess about that, but of course none of our opinions would see the light of day. Official Secrets Act and all that.

And there my curiosity got the better of me. Curiosity, and a nasty temper being my besetting sins. Next leave, I was off from Wigan like a scalded cat and travelled down to Beacon Hill. The scientific staff at the telescopes were scared silly, not daring to tell me anything of what had gone on there – though after three murders I suppose they have the prerogative to be tight-lipped. The fake story about a "training exercise" didn't convince me, and it took only half an hour to determine why.

The approach road to Beacon Hill had a pine plantation and open fields next to it, and my first revelation was the sight of scars on the tree trunks. Not that Joe Public would know, but those scars seemed exactly right for 7.62mm ball ammo as fired from NATO weapons.

Nor was that all. Oh no. I left my Escort on the road and crossed the stubble field on foot. About five yards from the roadside lay the links from a disintegrated GMPG ammunition belt. Whoever had swept the field for spent bullets and cartridge cases – because there were none present - had overlooked those. Further out, towards the trees, in front of a set of vehicle tracks, was a small shallow crater. Once again, Joe Public might not have given it a second look, but to me it had all the appearance associated with a No. 36 hand grenade. And everywhere, all over the field, were little chips of plastic.

"Training accident" my hairy white posterior. There had been a contact here, involving gunfire and explosions, not to mention deaths – those dead UNIT soldiers brought out in ambulances. And the X-rays.

Whom, I now realised, had been lying three or four deep in truck, after being shot and grenaded to bits in a firefight, but who didn't bleed at all. Not a bit. That 3- tonner had been bizarrely clean and tidy.

Clearly big fat lies were being told here. Why bother lying about a terrorist attack? The papers were full of them these days, what with things kicking-off in Ulster, not to mention mad Palestinian's blowing stuff up in the Middle East. The more I thought about it, the more curious I got. Eventually my nosiness got the better of me, and I bribed a knowledgeable redcap who organised traffic routing. He sent me word that a Bedford 3-tonner with an undisclosed cargo had been secured in the 151st Logistic Support Regiment's unused warehouse in Reading. UNIT apparently used this space to store equipment on a short-term basis, paying a nominal fee for it.

The colonel, when I asked about what really happened at Beacon Hill, scowled at me and sent me on my way with a caution to keep my oversized nose out of things that didn't concern me. Too late! My curiosity will be the death of me, and now that I'd been bitten the truth had to come out. I then had to wait for my next leave, which took me to Reading dressed in civilian clothes, and a dingy back street well out of the city centre. The 151st's warehouse had small windows twenty feet above the ground, a big folding vehicle door secured by padlock and chain, and a securely locked door for people to enter. There didn't seem to be an alarm system; there were no dogs, no sentries or warning signs. Definitely a low-key hide-in-the-open kind of place.

Okay, breaking in with a crowbar might have been a little over the top, except there didn't seem to be any other way in, and I planned to be in and out quick smart, certainly before anyone called the police.

The interior was dim, lit only by the late evening light that seeped in via the dirty window panes high up. Not wanting to alert any passers-by, the lights stayed off and the crowbarred door closed as tight as possible.

So there Lt. Walmsley stood, king of all he surveyed: a big, smelly, echoing brick warehouse. No Bedford lorry, which didn't surprise me as the battle of Beacon Hill was many weeks past by now. My torch, firmly held in the left hand, revealed the only artefacts present to be a long, low lump over in a far corner, which I covered with an only slightly-illegal Colt .45, held firmly in my right hand (not your standard Browning Hi-Power, and the ammo is hard to get). The long lump, on closer examination, turned out to be a big tarpaulin covering big, man-shaped objects. Pulling the corner back meant leaving my torch on the ground, which meant an even bigger surprise when the beam went back onto the man-shaped object. Yes, it was one of those caricatured mannequins from Farnham: a vast bulbous head, topped with a straw boater actually woven from plastic, the left cheek scarred by a great big hole, a yellow polyester jacket, also rent in places, cheap trousers and plastic hands.

Okay, I pondered. These are not people. Certainly not. Dead people left in a warehouse for a couple of months would stink to high heaven, not to mention be crawling with flies and rats.

Robots? Robots gone mad? Perhaps there really had been a training exercise gone wrong.

That head looked removable. With a bit of effort. So I grabbed hold of it and pulled, very hard indeed. Off it came, to reveal a crude simulacrum of a human head, again made of plastic, shapeless and ill-defined. No metal. Whatever object had holed the mannequin's detachable head had continued through, into this badly-put together façade of a head, gouging a hole as thick as my thumb. Checking the detached mask, I saw a matching exit hole in the rear. Bullet holes, must be. The entry and exit – paths, you couldn't call them wounds – paths of a bullet. The hidden head was composed of solid plastic, confirmed by shining the torch into the hole. No metal. When I shifted the lifeless figure it felt surprisingly light, much less solid than a human. My hastily-conceived theory about these being plastic-coated robots died the death.

Curiosity compelled me to uncover more of the incongruously cheerful figures from beneath the tarpaulin shroud. Several were badly damaged, one shattered almost apart, yet none exhibited any signs of metal articulation or wiring or electronics. They did have a hinged right hand, however, still hanging open in a few, to reveal a delicate probe-like device that nevertheless said "weapon" .

Not people. Not robots. In fact, apparently solid plastic. With a concealed weapon built into their right hand. What the hell were these bizarre things? You wouldn't create target dummies and dress them all alike in cheap polyester suits, nor give them stupid, over-sized heads. Besides, there were those dead soldiers back at Beacon Hill, who definitely didn't die from curing fumes. The penny dropped then, about all the plastic chips littered back in the fields, which hadn't been swept up because they were simply innocuous bits of detritus, to any observers. Now I knew they were plastic chips shot off these stupid mannequins in a gun battle, which constituted the what if not the why.

'Seen enough?' asked a loud, unfamiliar voice from behind.

It was creepy enough in that dark, dusty building without anyone sneaking up on me from behind, so after returning to solid ground from my involuntary leap in the air, I creditably managed to drop to one knee and level my pistol at the voice. The warehouse lights came on, and I discovered, oh horrors, that my pistol menaced an officer. A Brigadier-general. Wearing UNIT uniform, and backed up by a non-com toting a sub-machine gun.

Get your excuses ready, John my lad.

First order of business, stick gun into belt, salute smartly, come to attention. Second order of business, wonder if possible to get out past – no, there was another soldier at the door, seeing to the lock I'd forced.

'Well, Lieutenant Walmsley, you have been busy, haven't you!' exclaimed the brigadier. His tone was such that it was impossible to determine if he was amused or annoyed. 'Seen enough of the Ortons?' and he gestured at the plastic men with his swagger-stick.

The big concertina doors to the road outside were pushed open by another soldier, allowing a UNIT Bedford to drive into the warehouse. The driver kept his engine running, moving slowly up to the tarpaulin.

'Corporal Bell, load the truck. Lieutenant Walmsley, kindly show a bit of consideration and help the corporal load those remnants. They were the cheese in our mousetrap.'

Given that they were lightweight plastic, it didn't take long to chuck the Ortons into the truck bed. Bell climbed back into his cab, leaving me to face the general. That sergeant hung around too, just to ensure I stayed in place.

'Okay, off to Swafham,' ordered the general, giving the Bedford an incisive rap on the cab door with his stick.

He turned back to me, giving me the once-over. His bodyguard sergeant glanced upwards to the ceiling, at the corner above the doors, where I noticed a camera – doubtless infra-red.

No alarms on the outside, yet a camera system on the inside – it smelt of a set-up.

The general seemed to understand my sudden revelation.

'Ah, you begin to see the light. We've had our eye on you for some time, Lieutenant. Asking questions at Beacon Hill. Poking around the fields nearby. Getting information from military policemen who should know better. And now we catch you breaking into out-of-bounds military premises.'

He gave a theatrical tut, tugging the end of his moustache. The sergeant, lurking still, appeared to be stifling a smile.

'Big deal,' I muttered. 'Getting a look at a load of shop-window dummies.'The two exchanged looks.

'Door's fixed, sir,' called the soldier mending the lock. The general indicated the way forward with that bloody stick of his, letting me lead. A large civilian car had been parked outside, and all four of us got in.

'Yes, they don't look very dangerous, do they?' commented the brigadier. 'Except that when active, they can kill instantly at distances of up to fifty yards. That right hand of theirs – well, you saw them, it conceals a weapon. They aren't bulletproof, but it takes a great deal of damage to stop them. Eh, sergeant?'

'Too true, sir,' agreed the non-com gloomily.

'Okay, drive on,' ordered the brigadier. 'You realise now that we left those Ortons there for you to discover, Walmsley?'

Big fat unhappy nod from idiot subaltern. Those silly plastic shop mannequins could kill – which made my skin crawl, recalling being alone with them in the empty warehouse.

'And having caught you red-handed, we could see you court-martialled. Dishonourable discharge, loss of pension, civil prosecution. Quite a messy business.' What came next could be the textbook definition of a "pregnant pause". After all, why bother going to all the bother of setting up an elaborate trap, only to destroy what it captured?

'I take it you have a suggestion, sir?'

Oh, he certainly did. The general's suggestion was that I continue with my platoon leader training until passed, whereupon I ought to go for the UNIT Potential Candidate Application course, ought emphasised very strongly.

By that time we were well past the city centre of Reading, heading out of town. They dropped me off for a long walk back to my car, in the rain, to help me ponder on my recent behaviour, no doubt.

'Nice gat, sir,' said the sergeant from the front passenger seat, nodding at the .45 in my belt. 'I'd tuck it away properly, mind you, or the police might stop you. And don't shoot yourself in the foot.'

I'd already metaphorically managed that, was my morose inner dialogue.

Back to present-day reality. The sergeant – that same one who'd been at the general's elbow – left us, to be replaced by a doctor, a tame one working for UNIT, sporting hideous sideburns and a jolly-hockey sticks personality. We each got a full medical from him, which retired another prospective applicant, a corporal from the RMP. That took the schedule up to lunchtime, a break for us and a meal in the canteen, sat at tables separate from anyone else. We three officers chatted on off-topic matters, until Strasser asked why we were applying for the PCA selection course. I gave them an edited version of my story. Nick Munroe's battalion had been given three week's notice of despatch to Ulster, for a year's tour.

'I've got family over there and I don't fancy getting into a huge argument with them over being in Ulster in uniform, or shooting at my cousins on the Falls Road. So I really want to pass this selection,' he explained, in a soft Scottish brogue. My sympathy was with him – I'd done a tour in Belfast and it wasn't Fun City, at all.

We both looked at the captain, who shrugged.

'I was having an affair with the wife of our major. When the OC found out, it was suggested that I request a transfer to another regiment, immediately, and as far away as possible. This selection seemed too good an opportunity to miss.'

I exchanged a sidelong glance at Munro, who similarly glanced at me. A real PCA prospect, our Captain. With an attitude like that, hopefully he wouldn't get past the next section.

The next section, entitled "Response to Stress" according to the blackboard, consisted of over an hour's-worth of multiple choice questions, which were gathered up silently by the vigilant sergeant. He rubbed out the writing on the blackboard and chalked up "Creative Response", dishing out new exam papers to us, papers which asked seemingly random questions – "What is the population of China in millions", "Describe an orange", "What is a cyborg", "Who was Jan Hus", finishing with comprehension exercises where the source text had every third word missing. By that time everybody had lost focus, so the tea break came just in time. Whilst we were in the canteen, an unfamiliar officer toured us at our isolated tables. Those he stopped and whispered to didn't go back to the selection room, whittling our thirteen down to eight.

'Any questions?' asked the sergeant, seemingly relaxed now that we were a manageable number.

'Yes,' I said. 'What happens to those who've failed selection so far?'

'They'll probably get a desk job, sir. Nice pen-pushing work.'

Of course that waste of space Strasser piped up.

'Oh dear, that's what I wanted.'

The sergeant's face remained stonily blank.

'UNIT sends anyone fit to fight into action, sir. We don't have enough vetted people to do anything else.'

I didn't find that especially comforting. Short-handed and in the front line all the time. Great!

Our final test didn't seem like one, yet from what I learnt afterwards, this was the most critical part of the whole process. We got a stack of blank, lined paper, and the instruction, written upon the trusty blackboard, "What do you know about UNIT and why do you want to join". My nasty side smiled at that – Strasser wouldn't manage to pass this one.

Yet, ninety minute later, he had. Two other members left us, the five lucky winners being Strasser, Munroe, whose freckled face blinked hard in surprise, myself, a Corporal Horrigan and Private Ely.

Not being allowed to leave the room, we then got an apperance by that same general from the warehouse in Reading. With his damn swagger stick, of course. He strode to the front of the room and took us in at a glance.

'Congratulations!' he said, and meant it. 'Four out of fifteen isn't bad. On the odd occasion we only get one, or two.'

Nick and I looked at each other, and he mouthed what I was thinking: four?

'Of course you must be wondering if I can count, gentlemen, and I assure you I can. One of you was really one of us, a UNIT agent out to observe you, ensure you were genuine, test your mettle if you like.'

Strasser got to his feet and walked over to stand beside the general.

'Captain March, UNIT, late of Forty Commando,' snapped Strasser – sorry, March – coming to a crisp salute in front of the general. He exhibited a steely resolve entirely absent only minutes before. An actor, and a good one at that.

'Now that you've all passed PCA selection, you are required to report to Aylesbury Headquarters by oh-nine-hundred tomorrow morning, travel chits available from the Adjutant's Office. You need only bring personal effects with you, as new kit will be issued against anything you hold from HM Armed Forces. For your information, I am usually known as Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. The sergeant here is Sergeant Benton. You already know Surgeon-Lieutenant Sullivan. Gentlemen, be prepared from now on for anything on Earth. Or off it.'

The four of us left in the room stood in silence for a few seconds. Nick passed the first comment.

'So that's him. I've heard of Lethbridge-Stewart. Supposedly the whole idea of UNIT was his brainchild.'

What impressed me was his insistence on "Brigadier". Normally, any brigadier you meet impresses upon you the fact that he is in fact a general and don't you forget it.

'I need to get back to quarters, tell the missus about being transferred,' said Horrigan. 'Or at least tell her what I can,' he added. Private Ely went with him.

'Fancy a shot of Scotland's finest?' asked Nick. I decided I did fancy it, barely able to register that there wouldn't be a prosecution about breaking into the Reading warehouse.

'I do, but not here. Lets find a bar in town. I don't feel comfortable with the thought of UNIT spies peering over my shoulder and listening at my elbow.'

We took my car and drove out into the country, despite my words, looking for and finding an isolated pub, the "Barley Mow". Entire clientele when we entered consisted of half a dozen farming folk, which suited us fine.

'What d'you think he meant " – anything on Earth, or off it"?' asked Nick, sniffing his glass of whisky.

'From what little I know about UNIT, they get called in to deal with anything mysterious. UFO's, little green men, maybe even the Loch Ness monster. Whatever they do gets sat upon by the D-Notice Committee, so the press never hear about it.'

We sipped in mutual silence.

'They were involved in London, when the Big Freeze took place. My cousin let that slip once, after a New Year's party and a long day's drinking.'

The "Big Freeze" was an unofficial nickname for that period in the autumn of 1968, where the UK population, or even the entire world, if you believed the more nutty sections of the press, mysteriously lost many hours in a fugue state. I'd been horribly hungover in bed, and slept through it all. There were cults that had grown up about it, newsletters, books, speculative television programmes, all pretty boring to my mind. Despite that proviso, my interest was piqued by Nick's statement.

'Really? Did he have an explanation for the Big Freeze, then? Nowadays it's been swept under the carpet and if you mention it people consign you to the Wacky Wardrobe.'

He shook his head slowly, obviously thinking about his reply.

'No, we couldn't draw him on that. Then he went on about babysitting a nuclear warhead into Russian airspace. That got our interest!'

It got mine, too.

'Er – and then he passed out. Mind you, we'd been drinking since seven o'clock in the morning, and he's getting on a bit.'

Still, anything "off Earth" did have a particular ring to it.