321 EOD: The Unit That Walked Into Danger Every Day

They stepped into danger daily so others could be safe. In a conflict shaped by division, 321 EOD had a uniquely humanitarian role, not to take sides or lives, but to save them.

They were known by a single call-sign: Felix, like the cat with nine lives. Whenever a suspicious device was found in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, the call would go out to “Fetch Felix.” The men of 321 EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) walked toward danger when everyone else was running away. For more than three decades, they carried out perhaps the most dangerous job in the British Army, and by quietly doing so they became the most decorated unit in the Army’s peacetime history.

Bomb Disposal in the Heart of the Troubles

From the early 1970s through the late 1990s, Northern Ireland was engulfed in a low-intensity conflict that saw thousands of bombings, shootings, and civilian casualties. Between 1969 and the mid-1990s, the Provisional IRA alone detonated around 16,500 bombs across the province, ranging from small pipe bombs to truck bombs carrying thousands of pounds of explosives. Loyalist paramilitaries planted even more incendiary devices in total. This constant bombing campaign meant there was a perpetual threat on city streets and country lanes. 321 EOD Company, a unit raised in Northern Ireland at the outset of the Troubles in 1969 as part of the Royal Army Ordnance Corps (RAOC), was on the front line of this hidden war against bombs.

Their job? Find, disrupt, and dismantle improvised explosive devices (IEDs) before those devices could kill soldiers or civilians. The Army operations in Northern Ireland (codenamed Operation Banner, 1969–2007) required bomb disposal teams to respond to an attack roughly every 17 hours on average during the height of the violence. Often there was no time, no specialized bomb suit available or practical, and no guarantees of safety once a technician began the “long walk” toward a suspect device. The bomb techs faced booby-traps and secondary devices deliberately aimed at killing the very people trying to render bombs safe. In many cases during those early years, operators wore only basic body armour or helmets, since heavy bomb suits offered limited protection against large blasts and could slow them down. It was a deadly game of nerves and skill.

Courage, Innovation, and Loss

What began with rudimentary tools and methods of bomb disposal soon evolved into a high-stakes cat-and-mouse game between bomb-makers and bomb-techs. As the IRA developed more sophisticated weapons, remote-controlled bombs, hidden “come-on” devices, and improvised mortars, the British EOD teams answered with equal ingenuity. For example, the first remote-controlled bomb disposal robot was improvised by technicians in Northern Ireland using a modified wheelbarrow in 1972. This led to the now-famous “Wheelbarrow” series of EOD robots, pioneered on Belfast’s streets, which allowed bomb disposal from a safer distance. Similarly, the “Pigstick” water disruptor was developed by Major R. J. Patterson at the Army’s Bomb Disposal School and first used in Northern Ireland; it fires a high-powered jet of water to physically disable bomb circuitry. By mounting the Pigstick on the Wheelbarrow, Colonel Peter Miller and his team created a ground breaking method to neutralise car bombs, a combination that “saved hundreds of lives” according to historical accounts.

Many of the tactics and technologies now used by bomb squads worldwide were born in those years of trial and error in Ulster. The Wheelbarrow robot, continually refined over the years, became the template for modern bomb-disposal robots around the world. The Pigstick disruptor, likewise, has been widely copied by EOD units in virtually every country that faces the threat of IEDs.

But these innovations came at a cost. In the course of the conflict, 321 EOD lost 20 men in the line of duty. (In total, roughly 23 British bomb disposal specialists were killed during the 38-year campaign in Northern Ireland, including those from supporting units.) Many other team members were maimed – losing limbs, eyesight, or suffering other life-changing injuries – and countless more carried away psychological scars that aren’t visible on the surface. And yet, they kept going, rotation after rotation. They didn’t do it for medals or glory. As one veteran of the unit put it, “We did not ask who planted the bomb or why. We simply put ourselves between the device and the public and got on with the job.”

A British Army bomb disposal officer makes the “long walk” toward a suspect device on Manor Street in Belfast, circa 1980s. The ominous sign on the left reading “Prepare to Meet Thy God” (Amos 4:12) was a grim reminder of the danger – the operator is already within the kill radius if the bomb detonates. During the Troubles, 321 EOD teams faced such peril daily.

The Most Decorated Unit You’ve Never Heard Of

By the end of their deployments in Northern Ireland, the members of 321 EOD had collectively earned a record number of gallantry awards. According to official records and news accounts, 321 EOD (also known as 11 EOD Squadron after 1993, when it became part of the Royal Logistic Corps) became “the most decorated unit in the British Army (in peacetime)”. Their honours included 2 George Crosses, 36 George Medals, 75 Queen’s Gallantry Medals, and over 200 other awards such as Mentions in Despatches and Queen’s Commendations. (Some sources cite slightly different figures – for instance, earlier records noted 29 George Medals – but multiple references by 2007 confirm the higher count of 36 GMs by the end of Operation Banner.) These decorations were not handed out lightly or for distant leadership; they were earned by soldiers literally running toward bombs, often alone, with nothing but a screwdriver, a pair of wire cutters, and nerves of steel.

Despite this astonishing record of heroism, the bomb disposal unit remained relatively obscure. The men of 321 EOD rarely talked about what they saw or did, even among themselves. Their awards were often received quietly, with little public fanfare. In fact, so sustained and routine was their courage that it became expected – and perhaps underappreciated – as just another part of the war. As one commentator noted, 321 EOD’s innovative techniques and bravery “provided the origins for the modern international template for successful bomb disposal”, yet the operators themselves seldom sought or received fame.

My Dad Was One of Them

For me, this history is personal. My father served with 321 EOD during the height of the Troubles in the 70s and 80s. He was Mentioned in Despatches in 1983 for his actions, but the story runs deeper.

The story goes that, among those who were close to him, there was often a feeling he should have been recognised with more than just a Mention in Despatches. Some said he deserved a higher award, but part of the reason that never came may have been his complicated relationship with senior commanders.

What mattered to him, though, was never the medals. He didn’t do the job for recognition and that integrity and quiet pride shaped him as a person, and in turn, shaped me.

Growing up, I only heard fragments of what he experienced. He, like so many of his comrades, rarely spoke about the bombs he defeated or the friends he lost. I pieced together what it meant to be an EOD operator in those days mostly from the hush of conversations, old photos, the occasional matter-of-fact comment — and now, the internet.

Only recently did I come to realise that my dad had been part of a unit whose collective gallantry was truly extraordinary. This is why I write.

Why This Story Matters

The men of 321 EOD are not household names. They don’t feature in Hollywood movies or even many documentaries. Yet what they did saved countless lives and averted untold destruction. What they saw often broke them open – witnessing carnage, losing brothers-in-arms – and what they carried, in silence and service, still echoes through their families and communities today.

Telling the story of 321 EOD matters because it shines a light on a chapter of courage that largely unfolded in the shadows. These operators stepped into danger every day so that others could be safe. They operated with a singular focus: to protect life and property without fear or favour. In a conflict often defined by division and controversy, 321 EOD’s role was uniquely humanitarian – they weren’t there to take sides or lives, only to save them.

This article is a small attempt to honour their service and to say what many never got to hear: We see you. We remember you. Thank you for everything.

The “Wheelbarrow” bomb-disposal robot, originally invented in Northern Ireland in 1972, on display at the Imperial War Museum. Early versions were cobbled together from modified wheelbarrows and later improved; over 400 Wheelbarrow units were destroyed in action, each potentially saving a human operator’s life. The Wheelbarrow’s success in Ulster paved the way for the remote-controlled EOD robots used worldwide today.

Note: In an earlier draft I included more detail about my dad’s service. After talking with family, I’ve updated this section to reflect what can be factually confirmed. Much of this history lives in memory, and I want to honour both that and the record.

Sources:

• Belfast Telegraph (via Future Demining & EOD Tech): “The Freedom of Belfast would be fitting tribute to courage of 321 EOD”.

• Bomb disposal – Wikipedia (history of 321 EOD call-sign Felix and gallantry awards).

• Ryder, Chris. A Special Kind of Courage: 321 EOD Squadron – Battling the Bombers (Methuen, 2006), as summarized in Vanguard Canada.

• Rare Historical Photos: “The Long Walk” (background on EOD in NI and iconic Manor Street photo).

• Imperial War Museum / Wikimedia Commons (Wheelbarrow robot details).

• Personal correspondence and recollections (for anecdotal sections about my father’s service)

• Written from the heart, with help from AI to check facts and shape the story.