The Rigger

By Jack Williams

A British soldier recounts his experience maintaining surveillance towers in Northern Ireland during The Troubles in this candid military memoir.

Making unprecedented use of electronic surveillance, the Special Air Service and other British assault units were dependent on information provided by a network of towers and other devices. Construction and maintenance of the towers was the job of the British Army’s Royal Corps of Signals. The author and his fellow troopers of the R. Sigs had to climb and work on the electronic towers in full view of an often hostile population—and occasionally under fire.

This is the gripping insider story of the tension, fear, and comradeship of these specialists, who needed more than just a head for heights. Jack Williams’s account adds a previously little-known dimension to our understanding of the campaign in Northern Ireland and provides a first-hand account of previously unknown operations and techniques.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781783379408

Book preview

Sue.

1

THE COURSE

I was based at Communications Project Division in Blandford and was stuck there for the first six months waiting for it to happen. Everyone who’d been there before had said that I’d love it, flying to bases around the world doing telecom installations. The problem was that cable installation in Belize was deferred, Hong Kong was cancelled and The Rock delayed indefinitely. True, the one on Ascension was still on, but that was seven months away! What really hacked me off was that the riggers were on the go all the time, buzzing around the UK, working in civvies on hilltop sites where we didn’t want anybody to know there was a military antenna, and staying in hotels.

There was definitely a shortage of riggers.

THOUGHT!!!!!! (But I wasn’t too clever at heights.)

THOUGHT!!!!! (Do I want to fester in this place?)

It was down to the course clerk to get the number for the RAF Rigging School at Digby. My luck was in, there was a course starting Monday and one place left on it.

Sir, I said to Colonel Pat Soward, there’s a space on a rigging course going next Monday. It’s for six weeks and I’ve got nothing on until the Ascension job. Pat Soward has now retired and spends his time raising money for the Royal Signals Museum Appeal. In fact he’s been there that long that he’s in danger of becoming an exhibit. Next thing I knew I was picking up the phone, not a little scared of what I was about to do, but excited at the prospect of what was on offer.

It was four o’ clock on Wednesday and I had to tell Jean. After fourteen years living with a squaddie, it came as no surprise.

I was the oldest one there at forty-three and the one with the least hair.

It’s been eight years since we had someone your age, said the veteran rigger flight sergeant with the calloused hands.

In addition there was the ‘I’ve seen it, done it, been there’ map etched on his face, the ‘throw what you like at me world, I’ll cope with it’ look in his eyes.

The climbing test is first. If you fail that, you’re on the next train out, he said. The 365-foot tower was on a hill forty-five minutes’ drive away. The merest mention of that tower thrust fear into those who had failed and triumph into those who were successful. No matter whose eyes I looked into, fear lurked, except for the veteran rigger that is. He was tried and tested. He probably sat in the same position on every journey at the back of the bus, slouched against a window with his left arm draped across the back of the seat, legs crossed with a slightly bemused and nonchalant look on his face as he picked out the ones who wouldn’t make it. He’d heard all the gags from bus loads of previous hopefuls. The names were different, the looks the same.

We were gathered, apprehensive and waiting.

The rules are simple, said the flight sergeant who was now stood in front of us flanked by his two corporals. FIRST – you go up the central ladder to the one-hundred-foot stage where you will have a rope attached. You then climb out onto the outside of a leg and make your way down to the ground. SECOND – You go up to the two-hundred-foot stage where you will have a rope attached to you. You then climb out onto the outside of a leg and make your way down to the one-hundred-foot stage. THIRD – You climb all the way up to the top of the tower where I will be waiting to make sure you do it. Then it’s down to the ground. It was followed by a straightforward statement from a corporal, YOU and YOU, he said, pointing.

The two volunteers’ shoulders sagged. They took a deep breath, put their shoulders back and followed.

They had to sit on a ten-inch-wide girder and edge their way out, climb onto the outside faces of a leg and then climb down to the ground. When the first climber reached the ground another was on his way up. We waited for our turn to come while looking at the ones that had done it. We wished it were us.

We gathered at the two-hundred-foot stage feeling sure they’d got the height wrong, burying our heads in our jackets to protect them from the strong wind. I needed to warm more than them, especially with my additional exposed skin. One of my hands clung to the freezing rail. I blew on the other, then swopped. We all did it. We huddled and waited as though on the deck of a ship, bending our legs in unison as the tower swayed.

YOU! said the corporal.

They sensed a forward motion in me, but there was no movement. We were superglued together with no one wanting to produce a solvent. The two corporals smiled as the flight sergeant broke the bond with a push in my back. Even then I seemed to linger before finally jerking forward two steps.

The girders got even thinner the higher we went. I was now sitting astride a spar four inches wide. Halfway out and ten feet from the stage, several girders came together and formed a web. Leaning sideways while trying to leave my fingerprints on the girder, I raised my left leg and, after two attempts, decided it couldn’t be done without falling over. There was a lot of incoming verbal from the instructors.

Get a move on, they shouted.

Mentally I shut down, completely closing my mind. The world consisted of that girder and me. I wasn’t ready for the sideways push the swing of my leg gave me and it made me look down. That was the problem because it took my mind off what I was doing and left me with my heel resting on the girder. I was hanging at an angle of forty degrees, heel stuck on the girder, heart pounding, ears rushing. Panic was a couple of microns away waiting to dive in and put me on the next train home. I took a deep breath, concentrated and leant further over. I was now at fifty degrees and I jerked my leg. Miraculously it slipped over. DON’T STOP NOW!!!

Four more girders to get over and I’d learnt my lesson. I inched myself forwards to the next one, paused, took a deep breath, gripped the girder and swung my leg up and over. It was a piece of cake.

The outside leg was a triangular-shaped girder with the vee bit pointing out. The drill was to grip the edges of the girder with your hands and dig the instep of your wellies (wellies were better for braking) into the edges of the girder at the same time. Hand-overhand and sliding my feet, I went down steadily until halfway. It was there that my arms started to tire and I began to speed up. That panic feeling made itself known to me again and I was clueless on how to get out of this one. It was the verbal from the instructors again that saved me,

Bend your knees, they shouted.

I did and there I was, calmly resting on the outside leg at one hundred and fifty feet, wellies dug in, knees bent, totally in control and looking around.

The shouts changed. Get a move on, I felt good.

I was now back on the two-hundred-foot stage, regaining my breath and watching the next climber who had exactly the same problems when he reached the web. He leaned over, raised his leg then gave up as he went over his point of balance. The shouts and threats began and he moved on, jerking his legs over the girders and out to the leg. His ascent began the same. Steady at first, then speeding up as his arms tired, followed by a verbal from the instructors. The problem was that he wasn’t taking it on board and his scream echoed around the countryside as his hands began to burn. He let go. The knot had been tied behind his back and there he swung with outstretched arms, one hundred and fifty feet from the ground, face down and trying to grab steel.

He clung to it like a baby monkey to its mother. Great heaves racked his body until he settled. Then it was on with the climb and into the stage below.

Another one stepped forward and he was rattled after the last one. He got as far as the web and froze rigidly, staring into space. They gently coerced him at first, then threatened while gently tugging on the rope but it was no good. He’d gone. Haul him in, said the flight sergeant.

The two corporals did not have the combined strength to break his vice-like grip on the girder, so the flight sergeant had to assist. He swung in the air two feet above the girder and gently rotated. His eyes were saucer-size, white as untouched snow and vacant.

We don’t have the time to take him down, said the flight sergeant. Tie him to the rail.

I set off behind the flight sergeant’s lumbering lope to the top, just a few rungs below to begin with, then one stage behind. A thirty-foot wooden ladder connected the stages together at this level and as he climbed he purposefully bounced and whistled as though out on a Sunday walk. It was too much and I had to stop to put some space between the two of us. At three hundred feet the wind was howling and the bounce in the ladder getting vicious. There were several more stops to calm myself, then it was all the way down. Once on the ground we looked up and watched as the instructors untied the climber who had bottled out. He objected to the rope remaining attached as he descended the ladders, but they were having none of it and the rope remained.

Back in the classroom we were one man short.

There followed six pleasant weeks of antenna theory, antenna propagation, learning the different types of cables and working on forty-foot masts. The evenings were quiet. So, to keep us out of mischief, there was a sports league where everybody took part. We had to play squash, badminton, table tennis, running, shot putting, hop skip jump and so on. It was all good clean fun and, being the older one, I was better at racket sports and long-distance running. I was leading until the end when the six-foot-one thirteen-stoner won the shot putt and scooped ten points.

I got back to my Unit on a Friday and rolled into the office.

How did you go on? asked Colonel Pat.

Sir, I passed, replied I, feeling all cocky and pleased with myself.

Good, you fly to Canada on Tuesday and take Ian with you. Ian was a driver who always complained he never went anywhere either.

I walked out, disbelieving, and went to the workshops. An hour later one of the civvie project managers came up and briefed me.

It was my first time in Canada and I was struck by the sheer beauty of the snow-capped Rockies towering above Calgary. I boarded a bus heading east and endured a three-hour journey across landscape totally alien to the one I had just seen. The prairies are rolling hills three thousand feet above sea level which go on for thousands of miles. Like others before me I was soon to learn that the weather could go from plus-twenty to minus-twenty degrees Centigrade in an hour with a wind shift. The lack of pollution allowed us to pick out water towers and buildings in the far distance. They seemed to take an eon to reach. I could see why the British Army chose this place for live firing.

I bumped into the mover (Personnel movement administrator) in the mess that night.

How long will you be here? he asked.

Is there a problem?

No. We have flights every three weeks. However, if you just miss one we will have to re-route you down to Washington DC where you’ll stay overnight and catch the Belize flight next day.

Can’t say until I know what’s going on, I told him.

The following morning Ian and I met. We made our way to HQ and stood in the corridor waiting. It happens in all headquarters. An officer came out of his office holding a piece of paper. He crossed the corridor and entered another office. We saluted. Thirty seconds later another officer crossed the corridor holding a piece of paper. We saluted. Thirty seconds later it happened again. They reminded me of clockwork toys as if programmed to pick up a piece of paper when they heard voices outside. Walk across the corridor. Say good morning. Get their salute and return smiling and smug.

Berets off, I said to Ian, I can’t stand this crap any more.

Good morning, said a chirpy six-footer with glasses.

Captain Ferguson? I enquired.

Yes, he said, extending his hand. Come into my office. We followed.

How long do you think it will take? he asked, after outlining the tasks.

About four weeks.

What a pity, you’ll have to fly to Washington, he said and continued by outlining the reason why. Life can be tough sometimes can’t it!

We drew up a Land Rover, loaded our gear and headed along Rattlesnake Road to Brutus, the transmit tower. Brutus was long and slim and located in the middle of the range. It would be as easy to climb as a two-hundred-foot ladder.

The captain wanted the two antennae already on the tower moving higher. This would require two new feeder cables for them. He also wanted two new antennae rigged, one near the top and one on top. The one to go on top consisted of a twelve-foot aluminium pole with four antennae attached to it pointing in different directions.

The rest of the antennae were pretty straightforward, but the one on top was to prove a problem. I imagined myself at the top of the tower with the antenna assembled and ready, trying to lift it up so that it could be slotted down the middle and bolted up. It was heavy; two riggers would not be able to rig this one without additional kit. I found out later that a gin pole would have to be used in this situation. A gin is a long pole with a pulley on top, which can be mounted on the side of the tower, and would extend above the position required. Had I known it, it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. I didn’t have one.

I started low at one hundred and forty feet to build confidence. My shaking body informed me it wasn’t low enough. The climb began easy enough, but became harder the higher I went as the rope that was attached to me got longer and heavier. The shakes became shakier as I neared my goal and a long rest was needed to stop my knees knocking when I got there.

Are you alright? shouted Ian from the bottom.

I looked down at him and saw the rope. The wind blew it out and shaped it like a bowstring. It reminded me of an umbilical cord attaching me to the ground.

What?

Are you all right? he shouted louder. I heard him this time.

Yeah.

I was belted off and safe but tried to do everything with one hand while hanging on with the other. The belt was adjustable but I was so close to the tower that it was restricting my movements. I considered letting myself out a bit more which would need both hands. I thought of holding the rope with my teeth while I did it. I had second thoughts; my teeth could have been ripped out. I tied the rope off, hung onto the mast and loosened the adjusting strap slowly, very slowly, and leaned back. I was at arms’ length from the mast and not at all pleased with the situation. But was there a choice?

Two hours later I was down for a cup of coffee. Fifteen minutes after that, I should have been back up, but my body rebelled.

We’ll knock off early and go and see Captain Ferguson about the top antenna, I said.

I’ll book a chopper for you in two days to give time to get everything sorted, he said.

I had a few beers in the mess to calm me down that night. It didn’t work, so I had a few more.

My hangover was blown away with the two-hundred-foot climb the next morning. I surveyed the top and studied the situation. When they lowered the antenna they would stay in the hover waiting until it was bolted up. I could produce a base-plate and insert it inside the tower. Then the antenna could slip down inside, rest on the base-plate and the chopper wouldn’t have to hang around. But how big would the base-plate have to be?

Cursing, I climbed down, picked up a tape rule and climbed back up again. I measured the inside dimensions of the tower, noted them and climbed down again. At the bottom I had that all too familiar knock in my knees, and I was knackered.

We’re going back to camp to get a base-plate produced in the carpenters’ shop so the antenna can rest on it, I told Ian.

It was one o’clock and everything was jacked up, but I couldn’t face Brutus again that day.

There’s no point in going back out again this afternoon, I said. We’ll knock off early.

The second day’s hangover disappeared the same as the first day’s, climbing Brutus. I spent six hours up there and I was still not fully confident, but getting better. The third day we met at nine.

The chopper will arrive at half-ten, so let’s get everything prepared, said Captain Ferguson.

We laid the aluminium pole on the ground, attached the antennae to it and then waited for the helicopter to arrive. We gazed into the distance and at the featureless hills surrounding us. Then a speck appeared in the distance which got bigger and bigger. We heard the beat of its blades and waited in silence. It settled on the other side of the mast away from the hut and Ian and I had to hump the pole over. We attached it to the thirty-foot rope below the chopper which had a quick-release hook on the other end and then I went back to put my belt on. Here we go, another two hundred feet, I thought.

Captain Ferguson climbed effortlessly (later I discovered he was an accomplished rock climber) and I struggled behind him feeling mildly miffed. He belted off and waited for me, then radioed the chopper.

Thirty-seven feet above us sat the helicopter with the antenna swinging below. The chopper was slightly off and too high, but closing in. The down-draught was horrendous. I reached up, got hold of the pole and tried to drag it down into the inside of the mast. The chopper wandered off and dragged me with it. I was at full stretch looking up. The clouds above accelerated, my head whoozed and I thought I was on my way down. I let go. My thoughts calmed. I’m still here and the chopper is coming in again, from my side. I reached up and grabbed again, remembering to let go if it drifted again. I guided the aluminium pole into the neck of the mast and shouted, Lower.

Captain F relayed it on the radio. The pole slipped straight in, sat on the base-plate and rested on the inside of the tower.

Release, I shouted.

It climbed away, taking the down-draught and noise with it, and left us with a gentle breeze and serenity. It was over, another experience under my belt and it all seemed so easy now. I’ll leave you to it now the fun’s over, said Ferguson, smiling, and unclipping his belt.

I finished clamping the pole to the inside of the mast and looked up. The rope that was attached to the top of the pole was fluttering in the breeze and it would need to be taken off. I should have attached it lower, I thought. I was free-standing with my feet on top of the mast. My belt was around the antenna and I was trying to reach the knot twelve feet away. I had to go higher. I climbed onto the lowest of the four antennae and the aluminium pole leaned sideways in the breeze. There is no way this pole was going to snap, I thought, so I waited. I calmed myself and stepped up onto the next antenna. One of those freak gusts of winds that catch you completely unaware chose this moment to come at me. The pole leaned alarmingly and I shat myself. Here I was, clinging to an aluminium pole two hundred feet up above the prairie, brown-stained and wanting to get off this mast. I made my way down and Ian was looking up as I neared the ground so I clenched my buttocks and hoped he wouldn’t see. What about the rope?

It’ll have to stay, I can’t reach it, was all I could say. It’s probably still there!

Definitely no more rigging today.

It should have been getting easier but the next days climb was more nerve-racking than all the previous ones. I had to go up with a rope and pulley attached to me and I took lots of rests, continuously pushing down the fear that was rising in me. It was Ian’s turn to do the work now. He hauled while I looked down and watched the feeder cable for the antenna come slowly up. I connected the cable to the antenna, waterproof-taped it and made my way down, zipping the cable to the mast. I was halfway down when I lost